All of my best pieces are written there.

Sometimes I just find myself there. I’m in a walking dream, and I am drawn to open the computer and describe the visions and images that keep surfacing. I may have no idea what I’m writing about, until much later. I let myself flow along, trusting to the waters, refusing to wrap it up and label it, letting it tell itself, and be what it needs to be. It has a life of its own, and I watch it grow wild and unruly.

I feel like a silent witness, a watcher. What happens is a gift that I receive with open arms and with as much surrender as I can muster.

Later, I will prune and persuade and put in order. But now is the time for discovery and going places where I’ve never been before.

Sometimes, I have the desire to write from the place, but I am not there. I need to go there. How to get there? What are the directions? The signposts all point inward.

I may close my eyes and breathe deeply. I may pick up a book of Psalms and say one, two, or three of them. I may find that one verse of the Psalms will rivet me, and I say it over and over again until the boundaries between the author of these words and myself dissolve. When the words become my words, I have a very deep knowing of their meaning. I’ve been transported to a depth underwater. I’ve reached the subconscious.

But there are no formulas for getting there. The process is as new and innovative as the treasure that is found there. Each day has its own secrets to unlock. Each season brings me to a new frontier.

Sometimes I am barred from entering. But I don’t lose hope. One day I will succeed in getting there again. In the meantime, I keep on writing. I write down a recipe for my cookbook, or I work on a journalistic project just to keep the words flowing. The words, themselves, can guide me to where I need to go. I may find that smack in the middle of writing an essay for the newspaper, a door swings open, and I get a glimpse of the lush growth and tangled vines inside my secret garden.

      Varda Branfman