Doing

Not my doing:

knowing exactly what to write, yet only as each word appears, spontaneous, as if everything is prearranged in order and my only role is to wait for its arrival. Patience is the true art, allowing words and theme to find me without effort of my own. Of course their is skill involved, creativity and imagination used to my advantage, there is effort applied with the tools that are available. But the words themselves, whatever inspiration is delivered, that is not my doing. 

with this, there is no actual doer.

and so it is with all of life - I am not the originator of my thoughts. I'm not the source of my very best ideas, nor worst of my decisions. What I am is some essential part within the process, finding myself somewhere within the silence of true listening. It's the Heart Sutra of writing, emptiness at play as words as well as the appearance of a writer. 

I am simply part of what appears. 

it's about ideas, not just of writing, but of everything I've ever believed myself to be - ideas of writer, poet, athlete, every single identity, even to the role of a person, the one who entertains these thoughts. All ideas, and not a single one true in any real sense. Any truth would be a lasting reality and ideas, no matter how passionately believed, are malleable, changing as more information is received.  

the temptation here, right now, is to write what I most truly am, offering a sense of something profoundly aware of all that changes, unaffected by change itself, a witness to these affairs. But that would just be more ideas, temporary labels added to the mix. I only have ideas of what I am, and every one, in someway, can be dismissed. If ideas are taken away, whatever remains, than that is what I am. 

and in more subtle ways too, I am not separate from ideas either, existing, not existing, distinctions that make no demands really. Everything simply is, as it is, now. Words appeared, as did idea of writer, and it all unfolded without my doing. 

writing happened. 

~

Peace, Eric