A slow down, during middle age and my destiny only shines through a synchronicity, now and then, when I see a yellow VW Bug. The impulse to create is a wonderful experience. Now years later I have poems and artwork piled up. What is the purpose of creating inspirational things if they are going to be thrown in the trash when you die? I just don’t know what to do with all this stuff. SHould I destroy it as a Tibetan Buddhist sand maṇḍala? Do I go on the rampage and do some Guerrilla marketing and sell my creations for profit? Or do I let them sit as they are, hopeful that a skinny grand-daughter might find it all. All the poems and art that I did. Maybe she will dig what grandma created? I feel trapped.
The Body will again become restless
Until your soul paints all its beauty
Upon the Sky …
For when the heart tastes its glorious destiny
And you awake …