Enabled

I am "supposed" to be reading for another class. Perfunctual writing. Cut and Dry. Analyses and shove it down their throats. I could care less tonight, even though I won't be able to take part in tomorrow's Proposal Writing class.

I could draw pictures with my words tonight, something that the required reading would never, never allow. HA!

Once again I am enabled. Partially by Michael's discussion on community discourse in Composition Theory class tonight about Britton, Emig, and Chomsky. And also by giving myself permission, in a gradual developmental way, to ply words, scribble with language.

^{Reflection Florish, drawing}

So much validation in the Technical and Expository Writing Masters program. My flourishes don't have to perform for anyone. These writings can truly be in process, in the moment, just as the worlds exist in my head for their own sake. Composition is allowing the flow, trusting the process. Just like with creating visual images in art. The mechanics take care of themselves, as we saw tonight with the Chomsky exercise.

This works right along with my spiritual work on my womanness, on listening to the inner dialogue, really hearing what my gut says, following that intuitive voice that gently guides. Actually, I knew about Composition Theory all along. I just didn't "know" it in my heart. My senior high school English teacher touched off a spark. A teaching graduate assistant at Michigan State University in 1969 ignited some kindling that lignated saplings during traveling journal years. 1970's mostly. While on several continents I quested after the larger than life idealized vision of what IT should be like (??!!??)

I just COULD NOT FIND "IT" out there. Any where. Or in anyone.

^{In Search of Green, drawing}

Tonight's class is where I'm now able to zoom back within, comfortably, and find words readily available for use however I like. Being enabled. Deciding to trust Michael, that no matter what, he will accept my expressive writing.

Or rather, no matter what I will accept my expressive writing. Trust my self, my work, my sense of aesthetic judgment.

It comes back to acceptance. Always. Very Zen. I moan, I fumble around or ravage the countryside. There is no blame. There is only taking responsibility, coming to terms, acceptance. Then the words, the visual images, the answers, the vision and the truth flow as gifts. All to be given, as we gave in unison tonight, as nurturance for further growth.

I'm way jazzed. My inner voice is singing. My pen can't keep up.

I am grateful. But I know it will be a while till sleep. Thank you, Universe. I will use this energy for further study.

Shaping at the point of utterance.