Words are Words are Words

I am working through the discomfort of sharing imperfect words. The internet feels like one giant reiteration these days, and I want to share the words unspoken. Not everything I produce has to be marketable nor completely put together.

Words are words are words.

Seems like I have a lot of them these days, always scrambling for a pen to jot down one or two sentences that give me a warm fuzzy feeling after. Sometimes I write so fast I fear the friction will spark a flame. Isn’t that what I am doing? Writing to spark my own flame, and maybe someone else’s? Emphasis on the maybe.

I have no intention of becoming a great and influential writer; my grammar just won’t make the cut. But in the event my nonexistent books make it on the bestseller list- pinch me.

The deeper I go into my Yoga practice, the less I desire such things. Of course, publishing a book would bring me great joy. Not publishing a book seems interesting too.

We must separate the experience of joy from events, actions, and things. Joy can be found now; and for me that is found in breath and awareness. On my mat. Driving with the windows down. A warm brownie. A thick book.

Where do you find joy? What imperfect projects are you working on?