Terrible day yesterday. Late start today.
Still oscillating in this paradox of joyful suffering, suffering joyfully. My psychosomatic state fluctuates so intensely and frequently that I am struggling to hold onto much of anything that inspires me. Inspirations will come and lift me for an hour or two into a transcendent purposeful creativity and then dip out of my heart and plummet to an abyss like they never existed, leaving little to no trace or fruits. Writing has always been the way I capture them. Even so, they aren't captured in me; if I don't revisit them I forget even my favorite paintings, sometimes I forget the whole museum. But I have this room, with all these half-finished, just-started, and almost-finished sketches, lying about one on top of another. Looking at them all at once, its just somebody's garbage. Upon closer inspection though, here is a written picture of my brother and his wife on their wedding day, there is a action plan for my anxious friend who needs counsel, here is a mesh of the roses God collected for my vision, there is a poetic expression of the lessons I've learned in love. I am trying to become a child again, in order to be a leader of souls now.
Oh Love, sweet Love, Teacher of teachers, teach me to teach.