I've been writing about myself and my spiritual experiences, one in the same, for a little over a year. The ebb and flow of my creativity is its own creature. When the urge is there, it tugs at my consciousness until I satiate it. When writing about myself, the ebb and flow goes hand in hand with understanding. Certain periods are as clear as a crystal spring, and so flow evenly and effortlessly from mind to hand to pen. Other periods are as tangled and knotted yarn, and so I must pick and pick and pick at the knots until the strength of their confusion gives way.
I've not written a thing on my spiritual past since last May. Granted, my family and I were busy relocating, but I've had considerable untangling to do, as well. This move was the detangler I needed. The urge to return to When Isis Rises tugs steadily at my consciousness, each time a bit louder, a bit more insistent, like a child.
Before too long, I will have to indulge myself.