It’s not a pre-meditated craft, this urge of mine. It is an outlet. A way of tapping in and liberating. A way of freeing myself… This time, I write till my river runs wild.

The fierce urge to write has consumed me, periodically, as far back as I can recall. With rhythmic certainty that ebbs and flows across the years, the desire pulls me in like a soft, steady drumbeat. I feel it down deep, like slow-burning embers nestled in the wild woods on the fringes of my everyday life.

The urge to write grows irresistible; a shape-shifting will-o’-the-wisp I chase through the brambles each time. Luring me with an ineffable sense of promise and necessity. Back to dance around the eternal bonfire. Fanning the flames of inspiration that rage in the wilderness of my soul.

It calls me gently, insistently, compassionately—but with a fervor that won’t be ignored. The drums beat patiently, waiting for the inevitable moment when spirit will entice me back to the woods. Home to the woods. To write again.

Usually I heed the call of the drumbeat in times of turmoil or transition or metamorphosis. The desire—almost a compulsion—will consume me for a spell, unrelenting, until I finally sit my body down and allow the words to spill free on the page.

There’s no telling how long the spell will last, and seldom much (if any) prior thought given to what flows forth. I don’t tend to overthink it or tarry with the words too much. It’s not a pre-meditated craft, this urge of mine. It is an outlet. A way of tapping in and liberating. A way of freeing myself.

I have returned to the wild woods this time at the insistence of an uncommonly fierce and powerful rhythm. As always, the mysteries of what I’m called to write remain enshrouded in the shadows of lush vegetation, thickly tangled underbrush, and swirling fire-smoke.

But the urgency to write feels different this time—I’m dancing to the beat of a new drum. This time my bonfire crackles over a wild, subterranean river. A wellspring of unique life-source energy and information and experience that can no longer be contained beneath the sylvanian soil. This time, I write till my river runs wild.

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