Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.--Rumi
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Gift of Music
Martha Argerich playing Frederic Chopin Piano Concerto in e minor 2nd movement
Perhaps the most beautiful music of all time? Instead of words today...
After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.
I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier.
Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.
However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…
Photo by Daria Obymaha on Pexels.com
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home.
Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home.
Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home.
Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home.
Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home.
Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home.
Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home.
Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home.
Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home.
Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home.
Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…
What I most struggle with in creative writing is that there are some ideas that just feel like they belong in the ether, in the natural born clouds. They aren’t meant to be pinned down, and every time I try to pin them down into a practical form on a page, I wound them a little bit, and must throw them back up into the ether for repair, to restore their more nebulous characteristics. This content isn’t supposed to have legs and weight, and to make noise when it walks, or to have such things as a name and defining characteristics. Rather, just whiffs of possibility that hint at an undercurrent of parallel worlds so vast and amazing as to put any Tolkien or Rowling to shame. Its just supposed to hang there, ripe for plucking, but the plucker beware. The fruit bruises easily.
And yet, there are those books that seem to pin down something that doesn’t maim the central cast of characters, and in fact broadens the material into something that changes al…