Last week I was in a bind about my job. Some things that shall be nameless happened, and I didn’t know whether I should resign or not.  In my lunch hour, I stepped out into a beautiful blue day, still chilly but exhilarating. I followed my feet as they led me to the library.  Perhaps my wise friend would be there.  When I turned the corner, there he was, sitting outside on a bench in the sun, eating his lunch!  Coincidence, timing? Everything and everyone is connected, has a vibration.  He looked up from his peanut butter sandwich and said ‘Hello.’  I sat down beside him, somewhat reluctantly, knowing he was a man who relished solitude.  He was taking a break from his daily writings.  “I don’t know what to do,” I began.  “Yes?” he said, and I saw his eyes registering that something significant was coming. “I have a problem at work,” I said, keeping it short.  His blue eyes went into pondering mode, somewhere far away, and then he said: “But your writing is your work.” 

And with that, he stopped my train of thought–such an apt description: a train with carriages (thoughts) linked one to another, all speeding along until the train (the mind) stops at the terminus.  I laughed out loud and got up, wanting to leave him in peace after his simple revelation.  Money had been a part of it; being professional another part.  But he was of course right: my work is to write.