Writing is what happens in between. I live at the edge of something, the causeway connecting many things. A river empties where I stand. And in this land of ebb and flux, I simply arrive to find something waiting. There is writing happening all the time, everywhere I meet inner light manifesting Truth through form. Sometimes it appears on paper, but sometimes I write on the inside of my eyelids, or in the sand, or on the skin of a beloved. I write trails through the air, and send messages on the wind. Most of it is in the language of my living cells, though English occasionally predominates. Even if I decide ahead of time what to write, what appears will be markedly different, and not of my choosing. The only thing I can do is be ready, be skillful, and craft myself into the finest instrument for some larger (and as yet unknown to me) purpose. And then I show up to play. It is wild. It is an untameable ride on the rollercoaster of the cosmos. There are no guard rails. And everything I bring back with me counts as another star, a fresh start, a word added to a bag full of sand. The magician never reveals his tricks, because there are no tricks, just the magic of perception. The five year old, wide-eyed, knows it all. Nothing is written in stone because the word, nothing, is written in stone in the sidewalk. It's a joke. And I have so far to fall.
It's true that I have no expectations, but is the expectation of expectations an expectation? The anxiety is all me, but I empty out through this work. My vital spot is the meeting place, the ecotone, the blending and opposing forces as they join. The front and back covers, yin yang. All I am certain of, all I name myself, is change.
I like this.
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