Dear God,

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Dear God,

I don’t know how You did it, but thank you for closing the world and sending us home to the quiet of our own hearts for a spell.  Thank you for giving us and our precious planet Earth a time to allow Your light and love to heal our wounds.  What an amazing and miraculous gift for humanity and our Earth home—an opportunity to shut down and reboot, to start anew with a fresh perspective.

I know that there are many who will experience undue suffering and hardship, and I pray that they will be sustained in faith by Your love and by the kindness and compassion of family, friends, and strangers.

Thank you for opening our hearts to one another, and for the awareness that we are a family of one and are given a choice to decide between an attitude of love or fear.  Thank you that we are learning to recognize the destructive power of fear and help us choose the soothing, healing balm of love instead.  Thank you for miracles.

With an overflowing love and gratitude that my heart can scarcely hold,

Your dearly devoted daughter,

Julia

 

It’s About Time

AC1C6000-D68D-486D-BFFD-1C8712309839.jpegLord have mercy me I’m doing my very first blog and putting it out there for all the world to see. I haven’t a clue about what I’m doing and I’m scaring myself stupid, but what the heck. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I think the game plan is to quit agonizing over whether it’s perfect, and just dive in and do it. It feels like something akin to stepping out of an airplane at 10,000 feet. I can do it, but that first step is a gonna be a whipdoozie.

When I was 29, a palm reader told me that I should write. “Write what?” I asked? “Anything,” she said. Huh. Never thought of myself as a writer. Okay, fine, so I’ll write. Write what, I asked myself. Children’s books seem like a good place to start. Easy peazy, right? Well, maybe not so much . . .

So I focused my energies on acquiring the necessary accoutrements that would make a great writer out of me. Desktop computers were not yet a gleam in the eye of Bill Gates, so I had to bite the bullet and settle for a Selectric typewriter. It was way better than candlelight and an inkwell, I suppose and at least the keys didn’t get stuck together, but still . . ..

Set-up mission accomplished, I was ready.  I parked myself back in my little blue meditation chair and awaited the inspiration that was surely in there somewhere. Yeah, but where? My trusty typewriter was growing cobwebs while I played the waiting game.  Many months—or maybe even a year or so—passed by, and then one day I heard a compelling voice in my head command, “Get up, go sit down at your desk and write.” Bossy voice!

Again there was that pesky question, and again I asked myself, “Write what?” I dallied in my cozy little corner in a state of major resistance for a while, until finally against my will, something propelled me up and out of my comfort zone, hurled me into to my office, and plopped me down at my desk in front of my typewriter. Oh no—now what?

The voice again. “Put your fingers on the keys and just start typing.”

Type what?

Anything. The alphabet. It doesn’t matter. Just start typing.

So I started typing and I haven’t stopped since. Decades later after reams of typewritten pages, newsletters, a book and more journals that I can count, the voice returns and nags yet again. This time it is with a one-word command:  BLOG.

WHAT? NO! I don’t want to!

Why not?

Because it’s a lot like work. I don’t have a clue about how to start a blog. What if nobody reads it? Worse, what if somebody I know reads it and doesn’t like it? What if I sound like a raving lunatic in need of a one-way ticket to the nearest funny farm? Furthermore, who’d want to read anything that I wrote? What’s the point? What makes me think that I have something to say that is any different or better than what anyone else wiser and cleverer has already written?

What’s different you ask? What’s different is that this is your story and it is unique. Everyone has a story, but you are the only voice that can tell yours. Every story matters. Every story is different. Every life holds value and offers gifts to those willing to hear, willing to listen. Every story is of great benefit to at least one someone else. If your story finds its way into the hands or heart of just that one, if it benefits just one life, will have been worth the effort?

Your job is to use your voice and not concern yourself with the opinions of others. The only outcome that matters is the completion of the work that you came here to do. Do you wish to reaffirm your commitment to your spiritual path and purpose? If so, it is time to take that first step, jump out of the plane, and free fall joyfully through your fears with faith enough to know that you are safe and supported even though appearances would have you believe that you are surely headed toward a crash landing.

Okay fine. I get it. It’s about time to quit wasting time and get on with it. After all, I’m not 29 anymore.  And I’m not getting any younger, either. It’s definitely about time.  Bossy voice.

Deep breath in — Geronimooooooo . . . YIKES!   Wheeee . . .

You’re welcome.