It feels there is no end to the spring of words seeking to insinuate themselves out of me, pushing up through any tectonic cracks or underground tunnels munched open by creatures of the dark. But they are not useful. They are not ordered. As I re-read my last post, I realise they don’t even make much sense. And yet they come and they press at the sluice gate, leaking out a drop at a time, pooling on the page, contained by the margins but only just. They flow silently, imperceptible but unstoppable, raising and raising, closer to the edge.

Still, I must try.

More parts have stepped forward, moved to add their words to my dilemma. Loudest among them, my Reader Part, the one with books in her pockets, in her bags, on the bookshelves and the bedside table, crowding my desk and my holiday suitcases, the one with memories of other’s wisdom and knowledge and experience (that one quoted Gilbert and Eliott the other day) showed up in the defence of wanting more and waiting less. She said, remember Gina Puorro, remember Clarissa Pinkola Estes and Mary Reynolds, remember Sharon Blackie. All these women can’t be wrong, and they say in no uncertain terms, the good girl must die. She must die, or you will live a half-life, or a quarter life, muffled and numbed. The good girl, must make room for the strong woman. Compliant, accommodating, safe, predictable, low maintenance, nice. Resentment and rage fester under the meek surface, fear motivates her choices.

So I stop and close my eyes. I invite any thoughts, any feelings and sensations to unmask themselves, to fully disclose what they know of what I want, because if they don’t speak up, I will never find out. And as it comes I will share it: I get roses, fragrant, not the hot house roses grotesquely coloured and inflated, but the tenacious, exuberant, lush rose growing by my house (opening unattended, thank you Reader, I can see your touch here as you remind me of Jane Kenyon’s poem Briefly it Enters and Briefly Speaks), pale pink, small-petalled, generous; I get swallows, fast, agile, shrieking in the hot blue sky and chattering together as they perch for a moment, spectacularly unassuming; I get the river, my river, it flows modest and deep, not rushing but powerful, it holds me and carries me, its waters so dark they hide many secrets; I get a turtle, swimming, flying up and down, breathing a slow rhythm, old, elegant. A voice says I mustn’t wait. It says that to “wait without hope” is just to keep sowing, slowly, without pause, without expectation of a result, without judging the seeds, some are ready, others not.

Be, without purpose

Act, without will

Look ahead, without plan, goal or strategy

and without fear

Eat when hungry

Dance when dancing is needed

Make when creation is calling

Say yes

Say no

Invite inspiration over: make her feel welcome, feed her ripe cherries and a cold beer