Often theĪnswers came faster than I could write, and I found myself scribbling to keep up. The answers to the questions I was putting on paper never came to me until the question was completely written and I'd put my own thoughts away. That dictation went on for three years, and at the time, I had no idea where it was going. But wouldn't it be nice to be "sure as Heaven"?īefore I knew it, I had begun a conversation.and I was not writing so much as taking dictation. You are "sure as hell".about a lot of things. I'm venting, sure, but if these questions have answers, I'd sure as hell like to hear them! I blinked.and then my mind came up with a reply. Out came.ĭo you really want an answer to all these questions, or are you just venting? What I was about to write, but an idea seemed to be coming, so I decided to flow with it. Abruptly, the pen began moving on its own. To my surprise, as I scribbled out the last of my bitter, unanswerable questions and prepared to toss my pen aside, my hand remained poised over the paper, as if held there by some invisible force. Why wasn't my life working? What would it take to get it to work? Why could I not find happiness in relationships? Was the experience of adequate money going to elude me forever? Finally-and most emphatically-What had I done to deserve a life of It was a spiteful, passionate letter, full of confusions, contortions, and condemnations. This time, rather than another letter to another person I imagined to be victimizing me, I thought I'd go straight to the source straight to the greatest victimizer of them all. I picked up my trusty yellow legal pad and began pouring out my feelings. As I'd been in the habit for years of writing my thoughts down in letters (which I usually never delivered), I was very unhappy during that period, personally, professionally, and emotionally, and my life was feeling like a failure on all levels. In the spring of 1992-it was around Easter as I recall-an extraordinary phenomenon occurred in my life.
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