At This Point

At this point: 

at this point I'm not sure I even need to write, that perhaps the ritual alone is enough, showing up each morning to sit at my desk fresh from meditation and yoga, coffee at hand, and to simply let the hours unfold in silence. Yet it seems that words appear and I'm drawn to the task at hand, listening, writing only what's inspired, content with what's been given.

writing just happens.

my only role is presence. 

it wasn't always so easy, I've muddled the process for years, interfering with my own best process of writing by demanding inspiration appear a certain way and exactly when I wish it to. The problem was, I believed myself to be a writer, I had a definite role to play, an identity of high self-importance and would feel bereft if inspiration passed me by. Of course I was my own worst enemy here, and it's a wonder that words were able to find me at all through the hubris of my beliefs of being an author. Really, the problem was one of false identity, claiming too much of a role when I all I ever had to do was relax and allow silence the critical importance of art and inspiration.

everything comes from silence. 

I only had to learn to listen. 

or more truly so...

remember. 

and that was a process, it comes from refining a skill, in my case, crafting words with care and refining a style that hopefully held a lyrical bent, as well as developing the discipline to show up at my desk each morning with the intent of writing, having an energy that seeped to the edge of devotion and then overflowed to reach the page. I fell in love with the process, true love, unconditional, which meant I no longer cared to judge my words, more so, I came to realize that they weren't my words at all - words, and love, are never owned, they are lent to us in a momentary hold of inspiration. 

so what I truly learned...

was surrender.

writing simply taught me how.

and at this point,

 I joyfully let go. 

~

Peace, Eric