I remember someone saying that when you write, just wait for what bubbles up. I like that expression. I know that I possess something that will, invariably, bubble up.

However. At first it is painful to let it bubble up thinking I need to drag myself with luggage to the station from which it can take off. I usually feel I must effort to get there.

But—what if I just show up? Here I am, I can say. What have you to tell me today?

I am here, too, dear one. Uncluttered but for the raincloud of worldly ways that wobble and shake above your head distracting both of us from the tidy little path ahead, the one just there before us, waiting, as paths do so well.

You know there is no waiting in God, that has been said to you. But there is a waiting that is only the presence of Life—your own life, willing and able, supportive in stance, patient in unfoldment. It is this gentle waiting that fulfills your asking, your touch to keys, your pen to paper. You are a fertile meadow that keeps, unbetrayed, your belief in your self.

Do you remember the drawings you have made? Did you not think they were just nice little drawings, charming for being sweet but not having anything more meaningful to bring? You misjudged your drawings. You saw them as nothing. You saw them through the judgment you learned to believe in. You saw them with a sight that is the world’s and not your own. You do not think truthfully about what you create—or anything that comes out of you, for that matter. You approach creation with preconceived notions based on what you should do and been told to do by those not looking within. You make your work conform, just as you make yourself conform.

But the truth is this, your work has always told you the truth. It was never about artistic style and commercial acceptability and selling. It was always a conversation with the one you really are. You cannot escape who you are. (That idea bubbled up yesterday, too, and you posted it.) Embrace your creativity. Believe it. It is your true Being speaking. Feel its love for you and see it is your love for your self. That is the meaning in Creativity.

You love being alive and so you create. It just bubbles up … and over. It has to, for you are that ineffable joyful love.

It’s August and I’ve just come back into my computer after an absence; it’s summer and the humidity attests to it. What, I wonder, will be revealed in this computer that has been sitting quietly having nothing to say for itself outside a polite waiting for me. Does it know how uncomfortable I’ve become with all the new intrusive “updates” imposed upon us both? Is it uncomfortable, too? Fuss and bother now clutters the serenity of what was our simple approach to creativity.

This may be a machine, but it is aware. Trust me. It may have been invented by people with impersonal sensibilities, yet I know, I know, that as I start to write in it, an inner world emerges. A warmth comes that belies the sharp corners of its external presence and its internal chaos. When I tap keys, a door inside myself opens. It opens to reveal something so unexpected that I wonder once more about the depth of Reality and what it is made of and what it can reveal by means of me. By means of my fingers that are servants to my heart and soul. I write with a mechanical thing but I cannot escape what I am really made of. No matter the circumstances.

Isn’t that simply too wonderful? I cannot escape what I am really made of. I may fall, but I land upon Life. Even in a superficial world.

I do not come from here, I visit. She is the girl I am in this world. I know her well. I see her courage to please me, to be the best girl in the world she can be so that I can give my attention to this dream I am having. I chose her well this girl who was once a little child learning to be a little child, making her way through rooms of space and thoughts. She found herself in boxes. Boxes everywhere, but the biggest box, which was such a tight little box, was herself. In a body that now contained her and did not allow her to move as she knew she could move, should move, and even now wanted to move. Why had it all stopped?

Many things were stalled, becoming stagnant. Her mind once untroubled with pins and needles of obedience, lost its freedom. Each thought, each instant was examined to understand if she was doing it right. Getting it right. The Now had become something to answer to, not something to fully expand into with open arms and confident joy. Was she meant to find a treasure in all this immobility?

I am grateful for her courage. So much growth is happening for me from her daring. I truly love my human self.

Golden leaves are falling from the tree outside my window. Bright golden leaves that flutter to the ground to reveal Beauty. Most people walk over them or discard them as a nuisance. Still, now and then, a hopeful heart will reach down and pick one up and slip it into the pages of her book. Tender parts of life live in a few such pages.

My thoughts, too, are like golden leaves flowing from my mind to the movement of the world before me, bringing heartfelt traces of the meaningful lace of my truest self. All about this place is a golden pattern dressing our world in love and beauty able to be seen in all faces and certain books. It waits patiently to be acknowledged. Nothing else matters, really.

I once was a commercial artist. I trained myself to use my talent to serve other people. I was smart, I made a living. I was hurt, I lost myself.

One day, in my hurt, my talent told me this:

The art you express is the inner world you tell yourself about. The art you make wants to come to you, it is meant to flow freely through you. You insult it by asking it to please anyone else. It is your own sweet life innocently moving from within you, presenting itself for your joy and delight. “See? I am come to you,” it says. “I am not come to be judged, approved of, critiqued, or denied by another in a world asleep. I am a simple act, a simple movement, a warm loving breath, yours to yourself. I am aliveness, expression, happiness in being. Let me out, trust yourself to let me come and show you who you are. I am not dependent on other people, not created for other people, I am your presence in utter simplicity. Do you see? I am an act of love. Love me. When you give to yourself you serve the world.”