Anaïs Nin, Kindred Soul

Last week, I read:
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
That old familar fluster in my heart, I envisioned the release and felt close to the subject.
And then:
"Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
A gust of inspiration overcame me as I read more of Anaïs' words. I had never heard of her, but I felt an immediate affinity with her spirit, so apparent in these one or two line truisms. Of course I sought out more of her works, and was led to Under a Glass Bell, a reader. I borrowed it from library, but felt I couldn't yet read it. I kept it beside my bed and glanced at it, wondering when I'd feel ready to pursue it. Just a few moments ago, I felt the time was right. I took the book with me to a private place and read the first short essay, "The Labyrinth." As I read, I was overcome with gratitude that I had been led to her, and more awe of the text's undeniable, unswerving mission; to awaken in me, the imagination I let sleep so long. I feel sure that reading her works will do a great service to my own soul, and also somehow, to the world. Who is this brilliant star, dressed in lace and ruffles? She left behind her diaries to the world, for us to find out. She wrote, in "The Labyrinth":
"My lips moved like the sea anemone, with infinite slowness, opening and closing...forming nothing but a design on water..."
I could envision a tiny, glowing anemone, a dweller in a world unknown to my senses, floating slowly on its journey that none else could embark upon. I could be that anemone in that moment, the distance diminished.
Her description of the labyrinth of her eleven year old diary evokes fantastical, earthy, folkloric memories of that dark green, velvety moss in mysterious, magical forests where as children, our minds dwelt as permanently as they do now, in the largely repetetive, resigned, and chapped world of adulthood. Nin advocates for the existence of that sensual, inconsistent, flower and fur-ridden place that's been buried deep beneath all this time beyond eleven years old.