![treeinfog.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmdMeWysDvQTPqus9KAQN1WwwMJ39owgEVfk6QHbgh2WZd/treeinfog.jpg)

All you have to do is write three pages every day.  It doesn't matter what is in those three pages as long as you write them.  Get a cheap spiral bound notebook and write three pages every day.  Some days what I  have written has been my lifeline.  Some days I have complained and been ungrateful for the blessings  I manage to overlook.  I have written in anger, frustration and anguish. I have also written  when I was amazed at life and feeling peaceful and very blessed. I have found my selfish side, and have also found forgiveness of self in my rantings and ravings on those written pages.  I find myself in my writing, and lose myself as well.  I read a book entitled "The Artist's Way" by author Julia Cameron, and learned about writing for my very life.  If you can find the book, I highly recommend reading it, and following the concepts it promotes! Writing has changed my life, both my outer perspective and the inner landscape of my soul.
Here is a short excerpt from one day of my three pages;
I have committed myself to a labor of love that is both gratifying and terrifying.  It swallows me whole.  No light shines into the depths that engulf me.  I move through these days as a golem of my former self, my spirit entirely diminished.  My heart is too heavy to lift, and I am freakishly tired from just sitting.  In the hospital.  Watching my mother die.  No one speaks of the small deaths to the caregiver, the death of their life, the death of their spirit that happens slowly over time, the death of failing relationships and dreams put on hold.  The other, the impending death is the Death that claims attention.  It rightfully should be the center of attention, but.  The but is myself, the daughter who is living with my mother every day.  I gave up my job, and moved in to honor my mother and help care for her.  I am slowly disappearing, engulfed in the shadow of the Death that claims us both.  
Then, there is this. We sit on the front porch in the fading evening light, and just smell her roses. The climbing roses are riotous in their blooming this late spring.  They have such a soft and soothing fragrance in the cooling night air. She has always loved flowers.  We are alike in this love for every plant, every flower.  For the small graces, we give thanks.  The darkness is falling, but the light from early stars eclipses the coming night.
![freespirit rose.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmQiW6Fw8ZNddYCq9MfEuXFWz5z1aefkuGyB3sokKXU1re/freespirit%20rose.jpg)