“Magic, unless it is written down, escapes.”

Anne Morrow Lindbergh, in North to the Orient

I have been very quiet here on Bakotopia lately. Not writing much of anything, silently living in my own personal purgatory. Some of you might have not even noticed my absence and that, my friends, is completely ok.

I liken it to being a creative hermit, the need for solitude out weighing the need to be heard by anyone outside my own head and the friends who were brave enough to venture in and see what was happening.

I sit at my desk with 11 more days of 2007 left to live, a piece of remnant fabric, wrapped up in a small roll with a paper price tag, waiting to be purchased and made into something new.

11 more days of my most Dickensian year in memory, of best of times and worst of times.

I once called a year “The Year from Hell”. 1990: the year my daughter Marlena was born and died, the year I quit the job I loved, the year I moved to Bakersfield and left behind a community of friends in Los Angeles who knew me deeply, the year I stopped being Julie Jordan and started being Julie Scott.

It was not what I would call a banner year.

This year – 2007 – is entirely different though yet with even more ups and downs and twists and turns. There are subtle uniquenesses, though, in how I have experienced these two years that in outer appearances look so pain-filled.

The first glaring difference between 1990 and this year, 2007, is I documented everything as it happened. I took the time to write stuff down.  Even at the darkest moments, I narrated my life as it unfolded. I processed my experiences with a pencil and paper
or with my fingers on the keyboard.

I breathed the moments into my being and wrote what came into my fingers and through the pencil. I gently kissed the words as I sent them off to be shared with readers of my six year old ezine, Daily Passion Activator.

I was aware, deeply and profoundly aware, of every ounce of emotion as it flowed from me. I felt cataclysmic waves of unknowing filter through my being, rivers and oceans of
tears, icy periods when I was only able to write my prayers.

And I wrote them.

And I published them.

And I reached to my readers to hear me, to listen, and in some instances, to respond to my plea for divinity-with-skin so I didn’t feel so alone.

I wrote all the magic, I wrote it down.

The magic of sickness, of grief, of poverty, of pain, of hopelessness and the magic of health, of joy, of abundance, of holiness, of peace, of wonder, of incredulity, of
quiet triumph.

I wrote all the magic. I caught all the sides of my journey in passion.

Eleven more days.

I wonder what magic is in store next?