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Beginning with intent

When you take your pen in hand and press its tip into the paper the ideas begin to flow.

When you open a new document and press the tips of your fingers against the keys to form the first word, the rest of the words begin to come.

When you sit at your instrument with the intent not merely to play but to create, and then touch your fingers against the strings or the keys, the music starts to flow.

Magic is summoned. The dance between the temporal and the eternal, between the human and the divine, begins. But we must always take the first step.

That first step is both internal and external. It is the intent to create and then the act of physically beginning.

Many times our first few steps are clumsy, as we try to lead, but before long we are merely following. The process becomes less about writing and more about taking dictation. We seem to be guided by some unseen force, by some troop of angels that moves us along the path toward greater and greater creativity, moving us along the path toward a more divinely inspired, utterly sublime creation.

And this is why our best work seems not to come from us, but through us.

At other times the dance continues in its awkwardness, as we make our common-sense decisions, fearing the work will turn out to be very commonplace. Only after time has passed do we return to the work to see the touch of the divine.

Creativity is funny. The only wrong way to do it is to not actually do it.

When we begin to do something brave, unseen forces come to our aid. Creation is a brave act, and never is that promise of guidance, of assistance more true than when we truly begin and do so with intent.

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