For a while I felt so guilty for not writing as frequently as my conscience thought necessary. I silently imposed a variety of requirements as if I was in some sort of training, and failing.
Then something unexpected unfolded. Like a beautiful bunch of new snapdragons, tight and coiled, one by one my realizations opened showing me that I am merely observing now.
And that’s ok.
Slowly I’m cultivated the garden that is the next book.