Transferred from my journal 4-6-06:
This divine journal, blank pages white as pure sky and the light so light until dark ink burdens its face. Each page a face I put my hand on and caress as I would the cheek of a lover, the cheek of a child, or the cheek of God. All this searching for God is really just a pilgrimage to get home, back to the Mother, our one, true love, the beginning. Everything we search for is a search for Her. And it's as if we are all estranged from our Mothers. Why is this so? Why does She birth us and leave us to feel so helpless, so hopeless, so alone? If only we could reconnect we could be truly happy, truly pure, truly light. No more darkness. This is my form of prayer, this writing. It's my Zen, my meditation, my search for my lost Mother. It's my peace, my center, my Buddha. My God, my flow, the fiber of my being. Words. Writing. Talking to the divine, of the divine, for the divine. Or just to hear myself talk.