Recently I find myself pondering the impetus for my ceaseless, unrestrainable flow of inspiration. As of late, even the most mundane actions trigger an observation begging to find it's way into my blog. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I am merely curious.

I can neither ignore nor deny what seems to emanate from the caverns of my soul. Why would a pure thought or observation become a metal filing destined for the magnetic force that occupies the forefront of my mind? From where did this enigma arise? Why now?

I recently realized this is the 52nd post I've written since I started this blog, November 12, 2015. How has inspiration found me when I wander through my days watering my hundreds of houseplants, tending my chickens and ducks, cooking and doing laundry for myself and my husband, and writing these blog posts? Oh, I forgot the part about sleeping. Even as I am falling asleep and when I dream the thoughts ebb and flow like the tide that rolls in and drifts back out to sea.

Come morning I awaken and the news headline for me is my eagerly anticipated daily email; a "Do This Today" email from my agent, Elizabeth, reminding me to focus on writing. She knows me well. She and the rest of my family know that I am constantly in a state of wonder I wander through life. Without externally imposed direction, I might be on the internet watching in wait as a giraffe named April awaits the impending birth of her 4th calf. Apparently, I am the epitome of distractibility.

As a child, my mother often told me that in addition to being "a mistake" I was also "the least intelligent in my family." Following her reminder, my everpresent tenacity from within decided I was born to make some difference. I was too busy firmly gripping my threatened personhood to be aware of this occurrence, but it must have set my wheels turning.

Ironically, for the majority of my childhood and into my early adulthood my abusive mother was the fuel to my flame. Unintentionally her every invalidation brought me to the next level of my self-realization. Even more enlightening is the fact that I was told, "shut up because you monopolize the conversation and no one cares about what you have to say." That was the cannonball that started the war. It was "that war," the ever-present battle that almost took me down. This bloody battle was figurative, yet became so concrete in its aftermath. It turned me into a well-tuned word machine with no pause button. As an artist, I've had to leave my painting for another time; I am propelled to fill the blank canvas of my imagination non-stop. Once again I realize the juxtaposition from within myself; these days I must force myself to trade my brushes for my fingers on my computer keys, the material canvas for the messages from my mind.

Being me is exhausting. Trust me on this.

I am clueless as to what has unlocked this treasure trove and turned my soul into an abundantly ample spring that flows freely. I remain convinced these words are not mine. They come from a place of wisdom that I do not own. They come marching in and stake their claim. Determined, and armed with my mind held captive, they relay their message. I remain thankful to be their chosen vessel.

This post is #52 I feel #53 not far behind. I look beyond my meadow view but see no gate door. I guess gates are not always meant to keep strangers out. They allow me to invite others in with a message bound for their soul. I hope these shared thoughts bring hope and healing to all who are seeking. They certainly have done that for me.

The message is finally clear to me. We don't need a gate to hold up the posts on the fences that divide us. Boundaries are healthy, but so is an open space that allows for compassion and understanding. If you happen to pass through my town, you'll know which house is mine. There is a free-standing gate with no posts. I keep leaving them here on my blog!