right now a mystery - that I approach a morning's writing with no clear idea of theme or even first words and allow this to unfold without a notion of my own. Inspiration is often a general spark of ideas without true plan, more of an easy letting go of any need to be in control of any creative process, a surprise at what the present moment has to tell.
and it's always a mystery, even as I claim a thought or clever turn of phrase as my own - there's no real ownership of what's received, and no idea of how or why it reached me. My only talent is patience and this too is often rushed to gather more, eager to see what might arrive. But mystery has its own agenda and no amount of hurry brings an inspiration.
my role is often simply waiting.
or so it seems,
yet, somehow, this too might be more credit than deserved - what I am and how this works is all process, everything, and being a writer is just an idea within a non-stop creative flow. It's as if a petal claimed inspiration for a flower's bloom having now received the gift of sun and sky. A flower is an entire process of earth to stem, nourished by soil and rain, tended by the sun. There is no single point of inspiration. Just flowering.
right now a mystery - with no idea from its beginning to this very moment of what words might appear. Writing happened, inspiration, and I was a point within a process. More truly, there was only process that imagined me as author.
a petal to this bloom.
flowering.
~
Peace, Eric
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