Thank you for being there for me. A simple piece of paper and a thumb tack, or a piece of washi tape, and my own handwriting, or a simple design: you are the conduit between the big magic of God/the Universe, and my simple bones and flesh here on Earth. You bring the words that act as little stones, little pearls to rattle in my pocket as I go about my day to day. Shake shake, rattle rattle. Remind me, remind me, whisper to me, that I am creative, that I shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that I got this, that I am more than whatever bill I am paying at the moment.
The words become stepping stones. One flat stone in a garden, dew of the morning still on it, my bare feet standing on it. There is another stone, I step on that, and then to the next stone, and I move forward. I am not stuck. The words serve.
Then there is the cleansing that comes when its time to take a note down. You are like husks and seeds in the fall… the seeds have fallen, the husk remains. It’s time to take you down, put the paper in the recyclable bin. Leave a blank space on the wall for a bit. Let blankness be.
Someday soon, another idea, another quote, another string of stones and pearls will float down into my mind and catch. I’ll write it down, take out the thumb tacks or the washi tape, and attach it to the wall for a little while. And so it goes, the cycle of creativity, the cycle of hanging on to the thread of an idea, the cycle of supporting myself through the Resistance, through the negative voices that would stop all forward movement if it could.
O little piece of paper, you are so much bigger than your fibres. Thank you.