“I know the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes. I can open
to another life that’s wide and timeless.
So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over a gravesite
and making real the dream
of the one it’s living roots
embrace,
a dream once lost
among sorrows and songs.”
Rilke, I.5 The Monastic Life
Good morning. Thirty six hours into the journey and my word count is over 4,000! To be honest, the words mostly seem like a mish mash of obsessions, longings and fears. Like bubbles from the sea bed, I let them rise and pop on the surface. I see glimmerings of characters with fantastic powers and full lives coming forward. But nothing feels substantive yet. I consider writing the primary daily form of my spiritual practice. It’s a form of mediation and creation. It’s also a clearing out of the junk collected by the mind monkey. Perhaps a clearing is what is happening now.
Yesterday was the Day of the Dead. It was a day to celebrate and contemplate the lives of those that have preceded us to other side. Some cultures and traditions have rituals of actually feeding the ancestors and including them in their daily life during this time of year. When my pen starts it’s scratching song the veils seem thin between me and the dead. So I feed them my words, hoping to remember their wisdom and lives. I find myself between two worlds, one outside the laws of nature and one very much in the thick of the groaning world. Yesterday I wrote in covey of writers huddled over their laptops in the food court of the Pioneer Square food court (a city mall). I was writing as fast as I could in order to outpace the inner critic. I found moments where I was flying through the shafts of sun in the woodland of my island home. For moments, I left myself and became light and free. I soon came back to the grit of the city, laughing. I hope that I brought some freedom back with me. Looking at the other writers I wondered where they were traveling. I wondered what treasures moved from their key board into the city night. I hope some day to fly through the singing woodland again. I hope someday I can write in a way that brings you along with me.
Where do you go for freedom and healing stories? Can I come with you too?
RSS
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes. I can open
to another life that’s wide and timeless.
So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over a gravesite
and making real the dream
of the one it’s living roots
embrace,
a dream once lost
among sorrows and songs.”
Rilke, I.5 The Monastic Life
Good morning. Thirty six hours into the journey and my word count is over 4,000! To be honest, the words mostly seem like a mish mash of obsessions, longings and fears. Like bubbles from the sea bed, I let them rise and pop on the surface. I see glimmerings of characters with fantastic powers and full lives coming forward. But nothing feels substantive yet. I consider writing the primary daily form of my spiritual practice. It’s a form of mediation and creation. It’s also a clearing out of the junk collected by the mind monkey. Perhaps a clearing is what is happening now.
Yesterday was the Day of the Dead. It was a day to celebrate and contemplate the lives of those that have preceded us to other side. Some cultures and traditions have rituals of actually feeding the ancestors and including them in their daily life during this time of year. When my pen starts it’s scratching song the veils seem thin between me and the dead. So I feed them my words, hoping to remember their wisdom and lives. I find myself between two worlds, one outside the laws of nature and one very much in the thick of the groaning world. Yesterday I wrote in covey of writers huddled over their laptops in the food court of the Pioneer Square food court (a city mall). I was writing as fast as I could in order to outpace the inner critic. I found moments where I was flying through the shafts of sun in the woodland of my island home. For moments, I left myself and became light and free. I soon came back to the grit of the city, laughing. I hope that I brought some freedom back with me. Looking at the other writers I wondered where they were traveling. I wondered what treasures moved from their key board into the city night. I hope some day to fly through the singing woodland again. I hope someday I can write in a way that brings you along with me.
Where do you go for freedom and healing stories? Can I come with you too?
RSS
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