Ideas

Ideas:

there's nothing for me to write about, no idea occurs to me not previously covered, no theme that hasn't been explored. What I have is a few words, and still the remainder of an empty page. I also have patience, and a certain knowing that ideas arrive in their own time, making themselves available to me when I'm most relaxed and ready to receive. 

and that's my only true role, to be as clear as the beginning of the page, empty of any wish to be a writer, no desire of anything but to be expressed in some thoughtful manner. If I declare myself anything before writing than I set a limit to what appears. Ideas will come to me, attracted to a waiting mind. There is no rush, nor reach for words. I am not a writer, but someone who receives. Only after do I make my declaration - to call myself a writer. 

there is no place where ideas exist, no separate realm found waiting to be explored - it's all from nothing, an appearance from a void. In this way, truly, every word is now a gift. I make no demands for more, taking what is so freely, generously given, and arrange them on the page. It's a simple, easy, pleasure, one of great and grateful joy. 

this is from my time waiting, a morning spent in quite moments, listening to silence until some sound emerges to be heard. Everything comes in its own time, thoughts appear and come to me with an urge to be expressed as words. Ideas form, completely of their own afford. Without expectations, I simply write what's given. 

~

Peace, Eric