In the dreamy-eyed fugue of dawn before self-doubt stretches my soul translucent and thin, words cascade from pen to page. A sentence is a micro-essay; a paragraph, the seed of a story.
As writers, our Morning Pages are roadmaps of our spiritual journeys, a pre-dawn serendipity that often imparts inspiration with the momentum of a Ouija board planchette.
Yet some days, the words don’t flow and we’re stuck in a writing desert where ideas are but mirages and the ink has dried up and we agonize over the choice we’ve made, this conscious choice to write.
Here, at the intersection of insecurity and passion, I find inspiration in nature. Like Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road, I leave behind “indoor complaints” for trails to traverse, a park to embrace. Once outside, footfalls evoke ideas and nature transforms into morning pages.