If you place your hands on the earth, the areas that they touch make room for that connection.
There is not one thought in my mind that claims to know what the hell begins words on a page. Do I research something then regurgitate a point of view? Do I relay stats showing proof of belief in something that matters to me personally? Do I write about a subject that proves I know what it means to be human?
First thing to be damp with the soil are my arms. So we begin there and free fall into a place that exists outside of linear time. I let go of my strong belief in this dimension and after some fuss, sit in the existence of nothing. The flow of my surroundings is now only a couple breaths away. I try to blend in and let go.
While in this non-place of buoyancy, I turned to Madeleine, Lottie, and Helga. Their skins do not feel the way that mine does, they just are.
The day is rainy and overcast, sensational for clearing and centering. If left in the void of a page, the words flow through my brain, down my neck, across my shoulders, rushing into my hands that land on keys. The keys that if left unattended, will saunter down roads of rocky hills, lay on moss laden trees, rest on rivers sweeping towards the ocean. It feels like the decisions of each word mean less and less. What grabs my attention to keep pressing down on these plastic squares is feeling. The following of feeling to find meaning.
If there is comfort between the brain and the tap, it opens. Because if I write words that are painful, no matter how honest or earth shaking, the soil will swallow my hands whole. Oops, no more hands.
