The soul. Its definition is elusive, and my curiosity needs satisfaction, so I am determined to write until meaning emerges. Sure I can read a description and adopt a common belief that it lives separate from the body as the spiritual and moral part of us. The soul is subject to happiness and misery, and it survives death. It becomes our disembodied spirit, but can the senses define it again? I write to share the stories that influence the part of us that can’t be seen yet determines our eternity.

So I keep writing circles around it or maybe rectangles. I’m not sure of its shape. I write about my involuntary life. I didn’t choose it, but I’m here. We will all face crisis and tragedy. It’s inevitable and inescapable. In that context, as long as I can hold a pen or tap the keys of my laptop, I will write. My thoughts and written words reveal the joy and pain that live as soul friends. They fertilize it with mercy, forgiveness and grace.

I also write about hope. I cannot tell a story without its enduring theme. Without hope, remembrance has no purpose. Memories become delusional illusions of controversy and heresy. Many reports get buried in resignation, and when hope fades, the story dies. Hope leads me to participate in this life filled with the contradictions of success and happiness, suffering and recovery.

Pain redeems us. It happened to me. My writing is full of inadequacies in its explanations and probably worthy of being judged harshly by the educated intellectuals, but that doesn’t concern me here. I write in the form of public presentations or blogs and invite you to come along even when it may feel uncomfortable. My applications may be simple. My analogies hold tight to experience, and my point of view is personal. The mysterious souls that relentlessly harbour hope inspire me. So, I write.