Almost Always

almost always I find myself eager to write, every morning, just after sitting in meditation and then with coffee at hand and the sun just hinting at the start of day, ideas begin to form, words gather in phrase and theme - and the energy of writing then takes over. It's that easy really, with little stress and absolutely no strain involved within this process.  Words either flow or I sit and wait for their appearance, patient, knowing how this all unfolds. And yet almost always I find myself enthralled by the mystery of it all, that words will appear isn't ever in doubt, not really, but I never truly have a firm idea of where they might be leading, what their message is about, and their story will be told in final. 

everything I write is mystery.

almost always. 

it's better this way, for me at least, as once I struggled with ideas, demanding inspiration show on schedule and immediately meet all of my creative needs. Almost always I was disappointed. Inspiration doesn't seem to care for my demands, beauty unresponsive to my call, and I was unwilling to humble myself in waiting, believing any talent in writing was my own and not simply a gift that somehow shows itself in a flow of words. Of course I was an unhappy writer, as anyone who claims such a title is when there's a failure of words to appear. 

writer's write.

it's that simple. 

and it's just a temporary title, really, calling myself a writer, truly only belonging to the moment that words are given, and most often I am better related to the silence that precedes each word, existing still and always after they unfold. No label is the reality of experience, none, and it was this discovery that freed me to receive inspiration when it showed and not make demands for its appearance. Almost always I'm rewarded by humbling myself of any title and the hubris that surrounds such small concerns. I'm not really a writer at all it seems, but I'm deeply, intimately, involved in the process of writing. 

really, I'm simply part of the mystery that unfold each morning, essential as that first hint of sun and freshly brewed coffee. I am the ritual of a momentary expression, almost always aware now of where I most truly belong. 

it's a beautiful place to find myself.

here, 

unfolding as the morning's mystery...

~

Peace, Eric