I am glad I am a writer.

Dear One, my writing says to me, the words you write want to come to you. In them I am your own life flowing up and outward to bring you awareness of the joy you possess. I come from you. I do not come to be misunderstood by a closed mind, I am a simple act, a humble gesture, the loving breath of aliveness. I come to you in a gentle way. I can be received by you only in your own gentle way.

I speak to no one but you. I am not anyone else’s language. I am your personal presence of eternity on earth.The only gift you and I make is the gift of peace that words without strife offer. A tightness can be released.

Only one thing is true. Only one: simplicity flowers a garden. I bring you deep truth in simple words that you allow. That you welcome. I am proud to be your language and to bring the feelings that you receive with such an open heart. Ours is a precious friendship. And a necessary one, for meaning is everything.

I am a soft, warm, mostly sparkling Goodness. I wear a costume and play a role in order to be seen. What cannot be seen of me is known by others who also know they are not costume and role. They cross my path infrequently but that disturbs me only when I am busy acting my role and filling my costume. Only then really.

I write in the morning, you know. Longhand. Certain things are said then. It is now afternoon and I’m on Tapintoo’s keys, things are being said now, too. Is there something waiting for my attention? What is contained in that invisible just beyond the visible, the external of me? What is contained in me? I am alone, and yet I sense championship.

A part of me waits for my full attention, staying poised to tell me what I will be glad to know. Life supports no emptiness; it is a dialogue with meaning—to me. I’m the one who turns away for I’ve learned to obey a dialogue with less meaning. To my heart, this is a troubling journey. The dialogue with less meaning does not interest me, but I pretend it does. Pretending is a heavy thing.

And so, I write. In the morning and in the afternoon. Things are said. Things with meaning—for me. A small door opens, I feel its warmth and recognize its reassuring light. I brighten all over, inside and out, and then when I rejoin the less meaningful dialogue, I attempt to sprinkle it with hints of what I found when I paid attention elsewhere in the here and now. Today, as I finish this afternoon’s writing, I notice what the flame from my candle is really bringing to my room.

It brings me the bookmark of a Dialogue.

I can trace the Invisible by becoming still and letting my fingers touch keys. In this way I “use” technology to open the higher dialogue I have with my human who uses words. She needs to be reminded what stands within her wanting to be known, shown, and moved into form. She needs to meet the presence that fills the space she embodies in Time and Space.

Yes, little keys. Profound, because they know why they were really invented. And I know, too.

At the center of my being is a lighted room where soft things grow. Soft, is a power not understood by my conditioned mind. But when I stand in this lighted room, I become sure. Sure from a sense of being whole. Sure, of being where I need to be and never searching.

Curiosity is not a search, it is discovery. When I stand quietly knowing my sureness, I am open with curiosity and see a world that erupts around me in a panoply of discoveries. They are brought to me as gifts that fill my pockets, that confirm my thoughts, that fulfill my dreams. They bring Color to the blank page on which I place a brush.

All my happiness is found when I think the opposite of what I’ve been told since I am on earth. Isn’t that interesting?