Dear Souls… That’s why I love them.

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

I remember my first piano lesson. I was about 5 years old.

It all started with Alfred’s Basic Piano book, level A. It was red and white and it was one of the most important things I owned.

I grew up out where Jesus lost his sandals. Anytime there was a storm I thought, “This is it…this is the big one…we’re all gonna die!” I was convinced that our little farm house was going to be picked up in a whirl and tossed into the fields. I would gather up the few things that I couldn’t bear losing at 5 years old, (a doll named August, and my piano books) sit in the middle of my parent’s bed, and wait for the cue to run down to the basement. I don’t know why I loved those damn books so much; I never did learn to read music. If I were clever, I would have found a way to keep the piano in the basement, but I guess my mother just wasn’t sympathetic to my adolescent anxiety.

For five years I took lessons from those who tried like hell to teach me to read. In five years, I went through five levels, and four different teachers. Ms. Shipley, Joy Oldfield, Kathy Houghtaling, and Karen Matar just couldn’t teach me to process the notes on the page. It wasn’t their fault, by any means. I found that if I could hear it, eventually I could mimic what they were playing, and there was no motivation to go any further. Regardless of whether I could read what was in front of me or not, I still played the piano…and I played it often.

The piano was located against the wall right between the living room and the dining room. Aside from the fact that it was centrally located and is a generally loud instrument anyway, it was also in a house that was probably less than 1000 square feet. This means that for hours on end, not only did I have the pleasure of plunking on the enchanting instrument; everyone else in the house had the joy of listening.

My mother would try to get me to practice the assigned lessons. She would attempt to persuade me with positive reinforcements, threaten me within an inch of my life, or hoodwink me into opening the book and actually reading what was there. I didn’t want to read it; all I wanted to do was create. Now, those of you who know me and have heard my piano skills may think, “Wow, I bet that was wonderful…listening to you play.” But my mother would stop you at the ‘wonderful’ part.

One has to start somewhere, and I began by aimlessly running my fingers up, down and across every single key. There was no method to the madness… just noise. I found the damper pedal irresistible. I used it relentlessly and continuously, but never correctly. I just wanted to hear the notes ring and surround each other. I wanted to find out which ones went together and which ones sounded like muddy snow on the tepid ground. I could feel the dissonance in my teeth. If the notes didn’t harmonize, I could feel a spinning motion in my molars, and my ears would tickle.

My father would sit in the recliner in the living room and watch baseball; my father would sit in the recliner and watch football; he would sit and watch basketball, Magnum PI, Miami Vice, M*A*S*H, the evening news…all to the tune of my creations. He never once told me to stop. I assumed he wasn’t listening. I do remember the day, however, that I placed my little fingers on just the right keys and the most beautiful chord that I had ever heard sounded from the most beautiful instrument that ever was. I gasped, my head popped up, and my eyes had to have been the size of a small melon. I looked over at my dad, and he was looking at me.
“That was really good.” He said
“Thanks.” I replied
It could have been the fact that there was finally a break in the monotony of mush, but I didn’t care. He was listening! And I’m glad someone was, because it was the proudest moment of my life up to that point.

Once the exploration of every sound made by a piano became less investigation and more comfortably familiar, I began to expand on melodies that I already knew. I could close my eyes, hear what I wanted it to sound like in my head, and make it come out of my hands. I don’t necessarily know how I could do that… it just “was”. My mother thought I was practicing, but I was improvising. My teachers knew it. They were impressed, but not satisfied with the results in theory. I still couldn’t read the notes on the page, but my 6 to 7 year old brain thought it was the biggest waste of time.

By the time I was in high school music was sporadically busting through my fingers before my mind could even process a melody. I would sit down facing the keyboard and it was instantaneous. It was like a drug addiction. As soon as I saw a piano, I had to play it. My fingers would itch like I had a rash, and the only thing that could ease the irritation was to run them across the keys. It was almost certain that whatever came out at that time would never be played again. It was a ‘one time only’ creation, which occasionally astounded even me.

Since then, I’ve come to realize that the piano was and is more than my outlet, it is my life blood. If I am somewhere where I can’t play the piano or if I haven’t played in a matter of days, I am discombobulated and disheveled. I cannot function. It can decelerate my heart when needed or accelerate my heart when needed. I know the difference between smiling on the inside and smiling on the outside; the outside can be deceiving, but the inside is scrupulous and will never be counterfeit. It can make me hold my breath longer and it can force me to breathe deeper. It’s the only thing I do that makes me expand into little particles and fly. When I play the piano, my world becomes a sensory playground; everything is bright, everything is crisp, everything is fresh… everything is right.

And It all started with a red and white Alfred’s Basic Piano book …that’s why I love them.


Dear Souls… Your New Life

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

YOUR NEW LIFE requires you to reconsider every aspect of human existence.
YOUR NEW LIFE urges you to reassess your point of perception.

Ushering in the NEW depends upon you LETTING GO of the OLD.
Go over what is working and what is not working, and readjust your vision.
Twist your head just a quarter turn, and look at your experience with the conviction of adjustment and modification, and you will open doors that have never been in your line of sight.

Otherwise, you will not be within, nor even headed towards, YOUR NEW LIFE.
You will just be rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
You will be trying to change an illusion, which instigated from an original thought/belief that was damaged to begin with.

You see… when you were born into this life, you weren’t given an instructional manual on how to navigate it. And let’s face it… our parents weren’t given a manual for US either.
So we take in a world with no experience, no real knowledge… we take this world on faith…
Trying to make sense of our environment through a 2, 3, 4, 5 year old’s perspective.
So whatever you were experiencing at that time, is what you put your faith IN.
Thus creating a foundation for how we see ourselves and how we define our place in humanity.
So now – through no fault of our own – we have an entire planet of generations of humans who view their world from a set of beliefs that are faulty.

The truth is – you were born with the potential of the ENTIRE spectrum.
The truth is – you are a being of light. Do you know what that means??
It means that you are not broken, and you can never be destroyed.
The truth is – even NOW, you hold the potential of the ENTIRE spectrum.

But someone long, long ago told you otherwise… and you believed THEM.

Now is the time to unlearn.
Go within.
Change your mind.

It’s not about THEM being different than they ARE.
It’s about YOU being different than you WERE.

If an egg is broken from a force on the outside, life ends.
But if it is broken from a force on the inside, life begins.
Great things happen on the inside.

I love you,

Dear Souls…Chaos

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

I sit here with my heart in my own hand.  I offer it to you.  It is the decision I made when I entered this body almost 37 years ago.  Somehow, I’ve always known I would be an open soul.  I think that’s why I’ve been given lessons along the way that have given me the opportunity to learn how to actually do that… even in the face of danger, in the face of judgment, the onslaught of my own personal  insecurities.

I do not always have my heart ready for you… I still experience moments of contraction.  Where I want to turn inward and close off because I don’t know what else to do. Where the fear slips in and my human side tells me, “Don’t do it, Summer… your heart will not be accepted.”
Then – and it may be a day or so later… maybe a week – when I am sitting in awareness, I remind myself that “acceptance” is not why I offer my heart.  I offer my heart because I know that is what I came here to do. Whether or not you accept it is of no consequence to me. So in all reality, I’ve done MYSELF a disservice by choosing not to share. I realize that I made a choice out of fear – and fear never saves. Fear never comforts. Fear is not lending a hand to help.  Fear only keeps you thinking that you are separate.

This tour started in Kansas City.  Jen Harris and I performed a show that we had written called The Art of Awakening Experience.

This show was meant to crack heads open. It was meant to facilitate others’ journey into something bigger than themselves.  And it did. Oh… it most certainly did. We opened our hearts as full and as wide as we ever have, possibly ever. Tears were shed. Hearts reminisced a brokenness… and then they were reminded that they could be mended, or even in fact, already HAD been. That maybe WE were the only ones refusing to look at that. Light filled every crevice of that space and we were all one for approximately an hour and a half.

What I didn’t expect was that I would be the one forever changed.  My head cracked open. My mind was blown…
We had WRITTEN that show.  We KNEW what was coming… we’d already practiced it over and over.
But… it hadn’t yet been activated.
Not until we stood up on that stage and literally shared it with YOU. And then, I understood that Jen and I weren’t GIVING a lesson.
We were ALL learning In. That. Moment.
And I am STILL learning from that hour and a half.  I am still ruminating. I continue, even in this very moment, to receive bits of enlightenment and “ah-ha” occurrences from that weekend.

Sometimes we are so caught up in what is wrong, that we forget that it’s alright.
Sometimes I get tired. And I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. And then I realize that I’m trying to pull the power from myself – when I know that I do not, and cannot, do this on my own power.

I sat with my feelings for most of this trip. When any feeling welled up, I let it. I did not push it away. I did not give it a reason. I did not tell it to stay or to go. I did not ignore it, and I did not act on it. I did not try to find out where it came from. I did not try to work on it. I just let it be. Slowly, it dissipated on its own.
Then I asked myself, “What is that feeling telling me about myself?”
And this… opened up an entire line of understanding that I have never owned before. Answers that clicked in places where I had originally miss assigned offenders and blame.  I found myself sitting with honest… raw… choice.

We often tell ourselves that we always have a choice – and we do. But, somewhere inside, we don’t actually believe that. So we think we’re making choices, but in all reality we’re “making choices when we feel we have no other choice” And that is fear. Afraid to keep going, or afraid to stop. Afraid to go, and afraid to stay. Afraid to say yes, afraid to say no. What if, what if, what if…

But… when I sat still – when I took all of the fear OUT of it –Because I realized there was beauty down each and every path, THEN I sat in raw honest choice.

I realize that I am in the midst of transformation… about to break into a new level.

There is a moment… a fraction of a millisecond… where the egg becomes the chick.
There is an instant where a seed becomes a plant.
Some call it the “void” or “the nothingness” because it is that moment the human brain just cannot grasp.
The actual Greek word is χάος,.
The actual translation is… chaos.

Chaos comes with transition. The egg has to transform… the seed has to break open, the plant has to reach for the sun.

I am reaching. Keep on growing.


Dear Souls…Feel Good Feelings

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

Since my mom passed away, I work hard at focusing on the love of her, rather than the lack of her… what comes to mind the most was how she made me feel almost all of the time while I was growing up.  And that can be summed up in one simple word.


My mom gave me that “feel good” feeling on a regular basis.  And I cannot thank her enough.

I remember my first “feel good” experience.  I was 4 years old and I was dressed up in a frilly, lacey, Martha Miniature dress.  I had white tights with frills across my bottom.  My mom says she had to find underwear and tights with pretty things on the butt because I would lift the bottom of my dress and promptly put it in my mouth, bearing whatever was underneath.  She couldn’t break me of it before I had to, unavoidably, be seen in public… so if you can’t beat ’em, make sure the dysfunction appears with ruffles, and all will be forgiven.  I wore black patent leather shoes that, to me, sounded like tap shoes and I would dance across any hard surface I could find.
The “feel good” part came when my mother sat me on top of the upright piano at my little, country, Southern Baptist church.  As soon as she placed the microphone in my hand and the music started, I had a feeling of elation – a feeling a 4 year old could not understand – I thought I was going to cry… but I wasn’t scared.  I sang “Down by the Creekbank” and to this day, I can still sing the chorus.  It was my debut, and it is the cause of the stage addiction I currently retain today.

Thanks, mom.

When I was about 6 years old, my mom bought me a little plastic purse that looked like the back side of a pair of pants.  It had the two pockets similar to a pair of jeans on the front, and the top resembled a waistband complete with belt loops.  I carried it with me everywhere.  There wasn’t really anything of significance in it, the purse held its own significance.  I’d exchange its contents on a regular basis to fit whatever it was I was doing at the time; Pez and crayons one day, Matchbox cars and Juicy Fruit the next – although, there was always a little stack of Kleenex within its contents.  My grandma always had Kleenex, so I thought it was standard purse etiquette.
I don’t think it was specifically the purse that spurred the “feel goodness”, but when I would be ready to go somewhere, I would pick up my “pants purse” and I felt important; like I had things in my life that were so vital that I had to keep them in a contained parcel and carry it with me. What I remember the most is the scent of the purse.  Even now, if I catch a whiff of that same kind of plastic, I get the same feeling.  My lips can’t help but curl up in a little smile and my chest expands.  I get a little fidgety and want to giggle.  I’m 6 years old again.

Thanks, mom.

When I was in the 2nd grade, my class went on a field trip to Grant’s Farm.  The best part was that my mom was taking the day off to go with me.  The worst part is that she agreed to take Tammy in our group.  Tammy was the girl that was hard to be friends with.  She was mean most of the time, she didn’t get along with the teachers, let alone other students, she was the “smelly girl”, she got bad grades, and she was… not my friend.  I couldn’t understand why my mother would agree to take my “not friend” in our group.
The morning we left, I was excited that my mom was spending the day with me, and I was irritated that I had to share her with Tammy.  As the day went on, I suddenly realized that Tammy was not talking back, she wasn’t being spiteful, and we were actually… having fun. She liked my mom – well, of course she did – my mom was the music teacher.  Who doesn’t love the music teacher?  My mom knew this.
She told me later, “Maybe she misses her mom…”
I had a guilty feeling at first, but realizing my mom could change a person so positively, gave way to a “feel good” moment.

Thanks, mom.

When I was in the third grade, my mom took my sister and I to the Vandalia Municipal Pool for swimming lessons.  We would go swimming every summer… I already knew how to swim.  I couldn’t understand why she would be getting us lessons now.  (I can probably bet every penny I have that it was just the fact that she could have a couple of hours every morning without kids.)
The staff was unsure of where we were, skill wise, and we had to pass a number of tests to determine what class level we would join.  My sister, two years younger than me, passed every test and got in line with the advanced swimmers.  I, however, got stuck on the high dive test.  All I had to do was jump off and swim to the side.  I could do the swim part; it was the jump part I was unsure of.  I stood at the end of the board and waited for some miracle to either get me out of it, or give me the sudden courage to leap.
All of a sudden I heard a voice, loud and clear.  It was my mother.  She was standing outside the perimeter, her face against the chain link fence.
“Summer!!” she yelled.  “I’ll take you to McDonalds!”
That was all I needed.  When I resurfaced from my leap of faith and swam to the edge, my “feel good” feeling was roaring.  I’d done it… and I was going to MCDONALDS!

Thanks, mom.

When I was 15, I remember waking up at 7am on a Saturday to my mother’s question, “Summer… are you going to go to the lifeguard training?  Come on, get up.  I’ll take you.”
I didn’t ask questions. I got up, got ready, and got in the car.  Lifeguard training was something I never saw myself doing.  My friend was the trainer who, ironically, gave me swimming lessons in the 3rd grade.  If she thought I could do it, I guess I thought I might as well try – although I wasn’t confident that I would actually finish.
It wasn’t as hard as I had anticipated and I trained fairly well; until my last and final test.  I had to swim the length of the Olympic sized pool in 14 seconds.  You could take the test as many times as you wanted, but after two or three… or seven times, one tends to fatigue. So when the eighth time rolled around, I had virtually decided that was it.  No lifeguard license, no kick-ass summertime job.
All of a sudden I heard a voice, loud and clear.  It was my mother.  She was standing outside the perimeter, her face against the chain link fence.
“Summer!!” she yelled.  “I’ll take you to McDonalds!”
That was all I needed.  When I emerged on the far side of that Olympic sized pool, and my trainer was smacking my head, screaming, “YOU DID IT! YOU DID IT! 14 SECONDS EXACTLY!” – The “feel good” feeling was insurmountable.  I’d done it… and I was going to MCDONALDS!

Thanks, mom.

By now I am very aware and conscious of “feel good” moments –there are 1000 more “feel good” moments that I’ve experienced, mostly on account of my mother – hopefully there thousands more to come.  Thanks to my mom, I can recognize them as they come.  I can distinguish them before they actually hit me, and I open up my arms and let it plow into me like a Mack truck.   And – I am able to determine what I can do to make sure someone else has a “feel good” moment, because my mom made sure to instill in me that giving “feel good” moments is a “feel good” moment in and of itself.

Thanks, mom.

Dear Souls… I had a Vision

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

I am writing to tell you that I had a vision.
Of you.  Of me.  All of us in a place of strings and woodwinds.  Bells and infinite melodies.
Sometimes I see in sound.
Sometimes I feel in music.
Sometimes I am in tune, sometimes I am out of tune.  Either way, it comes in song.  Then I am struck with a design.  I call it an idea, but The Universe might call it communication.

Solitary upright bass…. Low, but clear and constant cello… a smooth clarinet….the accordion is playing in reverse and the piano is muted and filtered, echoing from some long, dark hallway.

What does this mean?

Well… The feeling I have runs so deep it surpasses definition. So when you ask, “What does it mean?”  I have no label or categorization necessarily.  Too often, we get lost in explanation.  We tend to listen with the intent to respond rather than with the intent to understand.  But I can try…

Change is happening.
And it is coming for you whether you know it or not, whether you believe it or not, and whether or not you approve.

That upright bass?  That is time.  Well… it’s less “time” and more evolution.   The bass foundation.  A deep breath.   A propeller.  An old steamboat.  Slowly… slowly… slowly… yet poignantly moving and supporting.

That constant cello?  That is you.  Steady but apprehensive.  There you are moving, because you can’t not move.  But you put your hands out, as if ready to shield yourself from a bright beam of light that might pop up out of a manhole and blind you of your path.  We all do it.  If we were just pure souls walking around, we would know that a light like that is nothing to fear and blocking it would be less productive.  But the purest part of us is fused with this human side.  And THAT part is the part that fears.  Please understand… the opposite of fear is NOT courage.  The opposite of fear is love.

The clarinet is your soul.  It is clear and bright and beautiful.  But it is often overlooked… UNLESS… you are in measures of long and unvarying tones.  Then it can shine above the shadow.  It can be heard- if you pay attention.  And it will speak to you in soft and solid tones… and you will know it is there.  That it has always been there.  Because it is an integral part of the symphony.

That backwards accordion?  It is an interesting sound.  I wish you could hear it.
This sound feels like them.  A sound that represents flashes of pictures of yesterday, last month, last year, 20 years.  Pictures that don’t make sense in and of themselves, but you can sense their meaning.  Because when you are unconsciously IN them, you catch your breath.  A thought passes through your brain just as quickly as the pictures roll and you forget where you are for a moment.  This is old energy.  These moments do not exist anywhere other than in your mind.  Did you realize that?  The accordion does.  It plays in reverse… it’s not unraveling you, it’s reminding you.  Good or bad, that part is not part of your forward motion.

The piano… the piano is the other side of change.  The other side of fear.  It’s down there, I can hear it.  Will we make it there?  We can’t NOT make it there.  The difference for any of us is: Will you get there by walking gently?  Or will you resist every step?  It is beautiful… and it is calming, and soothing, it’s ok… and it’s right. there.

For you who walk gently, bless you.  You see with your eyes closed.

For you who resist, kicking and screaming, bless you.  Your fight is a message.

For either of you, the surprise when you get there is… the one sitting at the piano, is you.

Dear Souls… Supertwine


Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

Growing up on a farm didn’t give us a lot of options as to how to spend our summer days.  I don’t mean to sound like the random geriatric patient, but having grown up 15 miles from town, we didn’t have the luxury of hanging out at the skating rink, the movies, the pool, or having our mother drop us off at our friend’s houses for the afternoon. But to be quite honest, I’m really ok with that.  In fact, I’m indebted to my modest upbringing for a vivid imagination.  We were left to each other and our own devices to entertain ourselves.  This meant a LOT of time spent at grandma’s house.

My grandparents had an open front shed just north of their big white farm house.  In the very back of the shed was a huge spool of… something.

“What is THAT?!” I asked

“It’s baling twine.” My grandma replied

“But… what IS it??”

“The boys use it to bale the hay.  You know, to keep it all together.”


To me it looked like jacked-up dental floss, but my grandma explained that it was very strong; that you’d have to cut it to get any of it off of the spool.  I thought, “No way…”  But no matter how hard I pulled on the thin threads, it would not break.  It didn’t even stretch.  I was intrigued by such a phenomenon.  The twine was literally no bigger than a few strands of dental floss, but proved to me to be strong enough to “tow the tow truck”.  It was supertwine.

Every time I ventured out to the shed, I’d cut a piece off.  Sometimes it was as long as I was tall; sometimes it was just enough to chew on, depending on my mood.  I would wrap one end around my hand, and secure the other end underneath my tennis shoe and pull with all my corn fed, farm girl might to show my cousins that there was no way the twine would break.  We’d entertain thoughts of tying one end to the rafters in the barn and swinging across cow pens and hay bales.  However, not one of us was willing to suffer the wrath of my corn fed, farm father if by chance the execution of that fabulous plan went awry.  But we were all convinced that it was supertwine.

Sometimes I’d cut off a piece small enough to chew on.  It was what I called “my all day chewing gum”.  I could chew on that piece all day long and it would never come apart, it would never split, it wouldn’t even fray.  It was supertwine.

I was astounded by the almighty twine; twine, which with a few strands held millions of tiny pieces of straw in perfectly shaped rectangular prisms.  Big burly farm men were forced to wear rugged, tough, leather gloves in fear of “the twine”.  Twine that my grandma said had to be sliced with a blade to separate from itself, because otherwise, it could never be broken. It. Was. Supertwine.  And I thought there was nothing stronger.

After my grandmother died, I didn’t go to the house as much as I probably should have.  It wasn’t anything like it used to be.  Storms had taken many of the structures that made it “my grandma’s house”.  The garage, the milk house, a machine shed, and even the little outhouse in the backyard have suffered the fatality of nature’s disasters.  But most of all, she wasn’t there.

When I did go back… I went by myself.  I didn’t go in; I just walked around the perimeter.  I walked through the grass where the milk house used to be, where her garden used to be, where her clothes line still hangs.  I walked to the back of that open front shed and found the spool of supertwine.  I didn’t have anything to cut it with but I reached out for it anyhow.

It fell apart in my hands.

It was dry and brittle and crumbled with a faint touch.

How ironic.

It had been at least twenty-five years.  I don’t know what I expected.  It’s an open front shed; no shield from wind, rain, sun, age… nature’s fatality.  And my supertwine was dead.

This life holds a lesson on impermanence of matter.  However, this life is not the beginning, and it is not the end.  It is but a snippet of the infinite-ness that is the “I am”.  If we can separate the ego from the essence, we find that this life is not as serious as our mind makes it out to be.  Try to see the world without giving it a label… without giving things a name.  Feel the life teeming through the limbs of your human suit… THAT is who you are.  A formless gathering of ageless energy.  THAT is the life you are meant to feel.  The love you are destined to seek out.  You did not come here to fix a broken world, you came here to learn to love yourself. Sans the supertwine.  :)

I love you,

Dear Souls… Thank You

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

Thank you…

Thank you for words.

Thank you for the words that effortlessly fall out at just the right time, and thank you for the words that take days, weeks and months to form.

Thank you for descriptive words.

Thank you for ‘in between the lines’ words.

Thank you for clichés, coin phrases, metaphors, and figures of speech.

Thank you for knowing the difference.

Thank you for kicking me when I was down.

Thank you for helping me discover what I did want by showing me what I didn’t want.

Thank you for haunting me.  Never letting me clear my head of what was disconcerting me and interrupting my thought progression.  It’s like an incessant alarm clock telling me to wake up and do something with the red flags.  Never letting me forget that I’m still here for a reason.

Thank you for beating me to the point of near cognitive death.  I never would have had the chance to teach myself how to heal; I never would have grown. 

You never know you’re short until you’re forced to walk amongst the tall.  I recognize the value of good.

Thank you for giving me the ability to grasp the idea that there is more to this life.     

Thank you for making it easy enough for me to believe, but difficult enough for me to appreciate the end result. 

Thank you for giving me that 2nd chance, thank you for giving me that hand up, thank you for telling me I was going to make it.  You don’t know how much I admire you, so you never knew that it was you that kept me from quitting.

Thank you for loving me in a way that I’d know it, regardless of if you’d ever said it out loud.

Dear Souls… Your Voice

Dear Souls in Earthsuits,

How painful it can be to find one’s true voice. I remember my own voyage well, and it is probably one of the hardest feats to accomplish:
To find your identifiable voice…

The voice that has not been tarnished by others influence, but born of accepted experience; your own thoughts, your own opinions, and your own fire. I will say, though,  that it is the most invigorating, most accomplished, most liberating discovery known to me at this time. And I’m still peripatetic and searching.

The simple fact that you said, “I don’t want to follow a call, I want to make the call,” demonstrates the difference in you. And I am so glad you did, because I knew it was there.  The desire to find your voice is the stamp of a leader and I see it in you.  How often have you sat by yourself agonizing? How many nights have you feared insomnia? How often have you worried that it’s simply your thought that disquiets you?  You’re on your way, then.
Thought: devoid of space and time.

We can say that we’re tagging a time line to it, but thought can’t be pinned down with periods and phases, and thought is not confined by areas and plots.  Therefore, your thought is boundless; it is inexhaustible; it is vast, and it is the precise strategy needed for designing your voice.

I can’t say that it’s not painful, and I can’t say I was never downright livid at times. I remember crying, I remember shouting. I remember confusion and second guessing.  I remember agony and nuisance.  And I will never forget it either, because they were the very seeds that grew … me.  But once you break through, it’s like discovering you have this awesome secret super power that no one else has.  It’s an explosion of enlightenment… even if others don’t agree; even if the masses don’t identify — you do.  And that’s all that matters.  It is validation in you.  It is the authorization to believe.  It’s less second-guessing and more advising. Things like that foster your conviction that what you feel is worth sharing.

You transform from a member of the infantry into a ranger.  Your self-proclaimed revolution releases you from the reigns of society and you empower yourself to lead the pack.  So… it really is worth the fight.

Please, please, please keep searching for your voice, because I know you have something to say and I know it needs to be shared – no matter how afraid you are of whatever comes out… someone needs it. And keep in touch, let me know your frustrations and joys and confusion. An artist’s soul bores the mastery of abstraction.