Francisco's Journal an author discusses the art of writing

It is both a searching and a being found. A going toward and a waiting for. A putting out and a bringing in. This thing called beauty. A building and a making, a creating that needs to happen every day. A stalking for traces of it. Glimpses in unexpected faces. It’s not just the red flower weighed with dew. It’s what’s behind it also. It’s not just the cloud noticed for the first time or forgiveness. It is the night and the distance between us. I keep a sharp eye for you. Even as time moves you, it can be a moment, just a moment. Radiance. The tree lit with fire. The pang. The heart pang. Exploding. No longer the need to question. No longer the need. I was found. You come and rest even as you fling. Stay. No, it is not possible. Yet, the memory and the new alertness. The practiced eye. The certainty. The gratitude. The Silence.