The writing that needs to happen
So Im trying to write (and to live) in this new way and it’s hard.
A few months ago, I started to notice that I was summarizing everything that happened to me. I would wake from a dream and before I could write it down, my mind was already making it into a blog post, a lesson, a homily. Engaged in a deep conversation with a friend, I’d feel my fingers twitching – Would it be rude to pull out my notebook?
The need to wrap life into neat, brief lessons was blocking the actual experience and guidance that was being offered to me – and it was driving me mad.
Every time I sat down to write, I felt as if I was betraying someone – or something – sacred. And in a way, I was. I was betraying me.
My relationship with spirit is not-negotiable. It’s holy and precious – and it’s not for sale. Not because I fear retribution or judgment from Spirit. Rather, because I cherish it and want to hold it close to my heart. I want to live inside of it and to carry it inside of me. And I can’t do that if I am chipping off little pieces and offering them for sale.
All of this was simmering in me when I opened the ribbons on Story is a State of Mind.
I signed up for Sarah Selecky’s beautiful class because I sense that Sarah might remind me how to write again.
It’s not that I’d forgotten – but that I seemed to be hiding from the writing – the deeper writing- that needed to happen. It was calling from a deep and wild place that was not going to fit neatly into blog posts.
And that was kinda freaking me out.
With Sarah’s help, and a new writing practice, I’m returning to the writing that needs to happen.
Writing which captures the details without summarizing or reaching for meaning or trying to understand.
Writing which simply witnesses.
Writing which requires that I experiences what’s presenting itself in the present moment: the chair pressing into the backs of my thighs. The Keemun Black tea cooling in the white cup my daughter left behind. The black walnuts which crash, one at a time, suddenly – unpredictably – against the cellar door.
Writing which requires me to see, to feel – to live.
Writing this way – and living this way – is hard.
And it’s beautiful.