I continue to write. It is both wonderful and terrible to feel so seized by something: I write like a thing possessed, and feel strange and strangled when I do not allow my fingers their free rein. Why is this? Will anything be lost if they are not poised to capture it? It seems they would believe that everything would be.
Because of this—because of, that is, my peculiar frantic panic about writing—I have started meditating again. It settles and centers me, and yet it seems the more committed I am to the practice of nothing, the more fervently and insistently I am called to write. I love the paradoxes of the world, and do not understand them.
