It’s not nice to ignore the Wild Child.

No doubt there are probably a goodly amount of people out there who don’t believe in the energy of the Universe, or the voice of God, or intuition—or any of a combination of other names for It. But I do. Personally, I think such people are missing out on something powerfully spectacular, but that’s their business—not mine. 

I’ve been living like a “responsible person” today and it’s been gnawing at me as all I really wanted to do when I woke up was sit in front of a clean page in Word and compose. Sometimes I think I just haven’t allowed the “wild child” nearly enough room to grow, and that isn’t a comfortable thought when it hits. 

But, noooo—the clothes hamper lid was bulging again, the insurances, utilities and other bills needed writing and mailing. There’s a ton of stuff scattered all over my computer desk that should be filed or put back on the shelf, the dishwasher needed swapping out, the cat’s box needed scooping, there were phone calls to make for promises I’d made to other people, and blah, blah, blah— 

So after I got done being responsible this afternoon I finally opened up today’s paper and read my horoscope. I like to do this every day. It’s a hoot—and on days like this—it’s most definitely the Voice of God. 

Here’s how mine read for today: 

Virgo (August 23-September 22)—

        Clean up your desk and get it ready for a special writing project: a blog entry, a love letter, a short story…it’s your choice. You’ve got the words. 

All day long I’ve been trying to put words in order in my head for a story I will write about my dad. The deadline for submission is close. The story will revolve around a pair of  paint shoes he used to wear. I failed my intuitive nudge a long time ago when I allowed myself to put those shoes into the garbage as I cleared his things away after his death. But I won’t let that stop me from getting the story written. 

God has spoken. I’ve completed all that responsible stuff, and now the wild child gets to play at her keyboard for the entire weekend. 

I have to admit, though—I wish those paint-splattered shoes were going to be sitting on my desk talking to me as I draft this next bit about an ornery old welder from a long time ago, but since my horoscope seems to think I’ve got the words already, I’m just going to trust it.

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