When you forget you’re exploring, you feel lost.
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I have no clue where ideas really come from. All I know is what I must do in order for those ideas to arrive.
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If there’s something in my life I don’t want, it didn’t arrive by accident.
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The heat of fear and despair consumes and turns to ash any old, dry thought I might seek to soothe my mind.
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Despair is just my guidance recognizing a lie and trying, in the only language it has, to point me back to what is true.
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I come up with an idea about how to relate to someone, or write a story, or teach a workshop, and do not always notice how that idea is aging.
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I do change, but not without first putting up a good fight.
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I understand now how irreplaceable that internal knowing is.
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It was never the movement that brought me where I wanted to be, just as it wasn’t typing that wrote my stories.
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To be allowed in to this party, I can’t complain about it or want it to be different; I have to just accept it, accept all of it, including that part of it called Me.
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If I doubt there are any ideas worth sharing, I’ll get none.
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How long are you allowed not to know before you think not knowing is a problem?
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Ideas always arrived when you were quiet, when you weren’t trying, when you weren’t worried, when you weren’t doubting.
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You have to believe more in what you want than what you don’t, believe more in love than fear.
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I don’t know how to change the world, but I do know how to change my mind.
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