I find words when my pen is on paper. I find a way to reach into a place where the shape of my experience lays. Then I circle around it, chip away at it with my pen, learning its shape.
Or perhaps instead I open myself to the whirling mystery on my horizons, through putting words to it I find myself in my moment. Or perhaps it is simply a story that wants to be written and I am the one with the time and the pen and the paper, so I give it a shot. I let it run through me. Then, to avoid constipation, I put it where others might find it, to give me space to listen for the next.
