A long time ago, perhaps 100 years or so or maybe just 20, I figured out that everything I had written?

Was becoming real.

You understand that when I say I’d written it, what I meant of course was chosen, written in my minds eye, in some way given my nod to, and sure, most likely had put pen to paper about, but that last bit – an option.

EVERYTHING YOU WRITE BECOMES REALIt was written because it wrote itself across my soul, and some part of me, fully conscious or no, knew, simply, to say yes.

Yes. Yes I will. Maybe one day. Maybe this day. But certainly some day. Amen.

Invariably, the writing of these eventual outcomes came hand in with a laugh at my own frivolity – “that’s not very likely, yet still I’m choosing it!”, or an immediate dismissal and handing over, because after all – “that’s pretty out of reach, and certainly not for NOW!”, and so –

the writing was forgotten, or at least – mostly so.

And perhaps I came back to it again and again over the months or years,
or perhaps I never consciously thought of it again,
or maybe, if it was one of those front of mind desires or divine callings, I journaled and wrote on it daily in some way, the understanding implicit that when it was time,
so it would be,
and so there was nothing I needed to do,
because the creating of it was not about me.

But whichever way it went –

the writing was on the wall,
and so it was DONE.

When I look back, everything I have written has come to life. Some things have taken far longer to do so, far longer than was perhaps energetically or otherwise required, because I allowed myself to be tangled in ideas that the creating of it WAS about me, I held on, I worried and tussled with it, bemoaned the fact that it hadn’t yet happened, and made my worth or joy hinged on it. Forgetting who I was. Forgetting that I get to just choose all states of my being. Forgetting that it is only ever my job to write,

and then be.


With what is. With what is for now. With this moment right here. And that is all.

Because the writing always shows up. It can’t not. It’s how this entire thing we call life works. We are ever aligning, ever deciding, ever steering ourselves in the direction of what will then occur.

Every choice. Every breath. And certainly, ever yes, however unnoticed or vaguely defined it may have been,

is taking us to the place where we shall one day look back and realise, OH – !

Here I am. And OH – !

I chose that, way back when. I wrote it. I said it. I allowed it. And now look –

it is!

Which brings us, inevitably, to this:

What are you writing right now? What are you choosing? What does your ever word, breath, and way of seeing or describing yourself currently plant, as a seed, which you’ll one day see fruit of?

And what would you like it to be?

In the end, it will be as simple and wondrous as this:

She said she would,

and then she did.