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It’s an ordinary life, good and solid, few thrills and chills, just days end to end like elephants on parade. Then why is there such longing for things unheard, un-tasted, untouched? Why is there such longing for more than enough? I have enough of everything: enough food, enough house, enough clothes, enough money, enough children, enough career. So how can enough not be enough? How can the longing devour the solidness of my days and nights? Longing, like a termite eating away at the foundation of my life, creating ever such tiny holes in my contentment and as those tiny holes grow my whole world collapses into longing—shattered—splintered—ordinary.
I wrote this several years ago while journaling. In fact, it was to be part of the closing of my next book…you know the one I never finished…but I digress. It is one of my favorite things I have ever written. It just gets to the heart of how I sometimes feel.
The funny thing was…it wasn’t what I meant to be writing about…it just slipped out…found its way onto the page…as things seem to have a way of doing. That’s what I love about writing. It brings out the parts of me that I try to hide even from myself. Some people call it automatic writing, some call it channeling…Bertha says the only time I get quite enough to listen to her is when I’m writing…who knows…who cares…it works for me.