Words of our Hearts
June 5, 2022 by Catherine Viel
June 4, 2022
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become jammed together,
bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.
~Billy Collins, Writing in the Afterlife
A friend commented that my article the other day sounded melancholy. I hadn’t thought so when writing it, but upon rereading, I perceive an element of tristesse, seasoned with a sprinkling of bitterness.
Perhaps I have reason to be disappointed, if not bitter. Forty-five years ago, I looked ahead to this current time and visualized that I’d be a successful, multiple-published, well-compensated author.
I had decades to accomplish it, looking ahead from age twenty, and worlds within me to write. Although the publishing industry has never been welcoming to new authors, I wasn’t daunted. There was nothing else I wanted to do, and without false modesty I can say that even as a college student, I was a damned good writer.
I drafted my first novel when I was seventeen. I learned by doing. Now, I also think I was born knowing how to create stories because this isn’t my first rodeo as a writer. Who knows how many lifetimes I have put quill to parchment?
One college friend used to say, “I don’t want to be someone who talks about writing, but doesn’t actually write.” He might as well have said “but doesn’t actually publish.” No one in my writing classes or workshops felt validated just by sharing and critiquing each other’s pieces. The only true acknowledgement was to be in print.
There was no Internet. The term “blog” had yet to be invented. The only way to see yourself in print was to have a publishing house in New York, or a snooty editor at what are referred to as “literary and little“ magazines, deign to publish the work. No aspiring writer wanted to use the services of a vanity press, where the author pays a publisher to print books. There was no legitimacy there.
It’s hard, now, to remember or imagine those constrictions. We have more control over putting our expressions out into the world than was dreamed of in what now seems like the dark ages of publishing.
I wonder how many lifetimes of failed dreams and disappointments I’m attempting to incorporate into this one incarnation.
A number of sources have opined that souls were queuing up to incarnate as humans on Earth at this time. The dawning of the Golden Age. Simon Parkes recently likened it to an oversold concert, only 100,000 seats available, and millions vying for tickets. (1)
Somehow, I snagged one of those tickets. Have I squandered this opportunity? Is my perceived failure to be the published author I so desperately wanted to be causing celestial heads to shake and generating blanks on the checklist I had written up for this life?
My understanding is that if we won the incarnation lottery this round, we’re here to check off everything we didn’t “accomplish“ in our unimaginably multitudinous previous lifetimes.
Well, shoot. No pressure there.
I reckon at heart, I’m a starry-eyed optimist. Instead of watching helplessly as the tarpit of melancholy engulfs me, as in years past, I’m seeing it slough off. It’s as if I’m coated with a magical Teflon that won’t allow grimness to adhere. You can throw stuff at me, but it won’t stick.
An article was recently published on a by-gosh US government website, the one for the National Institutes of Health, that details at excruciating length the Covid saga, from beginning to present time: the lies, the backstories, and the damage and destruction that have been wrought. (2)
I’m still marveling. An actual US government website! Telling the truth!
That seems like cause for optimism of the stars-in-the-eyes variety.
I’m going to allow that optimism to spread to other areas of “things I hope will happen.” I had hoped that sooner rather than later, mainstream sources would widely publish the truth about Covid (as many in the spiritual/truther community see it). That has happened in at least one instance. Check!
I hope that Star Family is indeed massed above and around and within our Earth. I hope that thousands of med beds have already been created and thousands of healing centers to deploy them are in the works or already finished, perhaps in abandoned wings or entire hospitals, as some have speculated.
I hope that the med bed technology will reel my personal time clock back thirty or, dare I wish, forty years…and whatever new books have been percolating within me over these decades can finally see the light of day.
In whatever forms new books will be. Words of light? Empathically imprinted tomes downloaded not through manmade AI but via our heartfelt desire to share the words, and readers’ heartfelt desire to receive them?
Much better than a vanity press. The words of our hearts will perhaps be published and shared in a manner that I cannot even dream of.
Whatever melancholy or bitterness I’m still fated to experience, hopefully to shake it out of my system for good, it will be an easier task, believing in the good that is to come.
(1) Simon Parkes, May 28, 2022 (https://www.simonparkes.org/post/2022-05-28-connecting-consciousness)
(2) Thanks to Suzi on Buy Me a Coffee. “Covid Update: What is the Truth?” by Russell L. Blaylock, April 22, 2022 (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC9062939/)