Everything in me resonated with this musical language. While I wrote in a crisp, straight-forward style and used imagery only with considerable effort, the writings were smoothly clothed in poetic metaphor, a gift of eloquence that I had always admired. I was also fascinated by the ease with which the words flowed into my mind, so I paid close attention to the process. I had to learn how to tune in to this voice behind my voice and it was not easy to do. It was a kind of connection and disconnection, attachment and detachment at the same time--a unity of opposites--and I knew that this synthesis was related to the loving, transcendent viewpoint in the writings.

I practiced quieting my mind, listened, waited patiently and when an impulse of words surfaced, I wrote them down. When I doubted that anything sensible would come, my conscious mind tried to intervene and control the voice, either by injecting itself into the flow of words or by drawing away in distrust. Any interference pulled me out of the flow and broke the connection. I learned to set aside my thinking mind and to allow the words and phrases to seep through my hand and pen like water, without worry as to whether they made sense or not. I was never disappointed.

Sometimes the words came slowly, and at other times, the flood was so fast that I scribbled to keep up. Submerged in recording the words and phrases, I had little or no memory of what had been said and was amazed that the sentences and paragraphs connected sensibly, much less were beautiful and profound in meaning.