Life continues to present itself as unpredictable and non-linear contrary to a childlike dream--- and the only way I can make any sense out of present ordeals seem to be the need for tiny stories; for raw, painful and raging stories that permeate everyone's lives but few talk about.
As soon as my life begins to feel ordinary, another extraordinary event follows without my consent- and life is rolling out its red carpet awaiting for me to take my first step as a story-teller.
This red carpet is not glamourous like Hollywood nor perfect like a Taoist's zen...it is tattered, abused and abandoned yet gleaming its beauty under the array of stars that shine without a grid, lost but perfectly orchestrated into a Godly pattern.
Like a shaman who can't shake off an unknown illness until she becomes fully ritualized into her destined role, I must gather my scattered energy and begin to write.
Do I write for the listener or do I write for myself. How do I rationalize the hours spent away from my family by accepting this role. Where do I begin.
Knowing how much story telling can dig up painful memories, knowing the tragic end of many writers consumed by their passions that double as self-deprecating demons, this is a dilemma my head continues to fight.
I keep running away and life keeps bringing me back. I want to run but can't hide. Why do you keep me from living my normal life as a housewife. Why am I putting up a fight.
My muse is my biggest fear and she won't let go until I abide.
