Small Inspirations

Small inspirations: 

until just now, and no idea before what words might come to me, or whatever theme will begin to unfold - it all remains a mystery to the very final word. That's how writing happens, it's how art is ultimately created, small inspirations added towards completion, and our attention to detail is so great that we seldom pause and wonder from where these things come, how a word arrives from absolute absence and ideas then begin to flow, or single motion becomes a perfect stroke of beauty against an empty canvas. Our lives are filled with these small inspirations, subtle and mostly gone unnoticed, given solely by the grace of our existence. 

that's how life happens. 

small inspirations given over time. 

and I do love the word grace, how it offers so little by way of  an actual explanation, and yet it tells exactly how a particular thing happened, or why some event might have occurred . Grace happens. It's gifted at just the right moment for things to be a certain way that best serves in our endeavors. A blessing, really, although we might not know it at the time, or even later as we give ourselves credit for what unfolds. But so much of our lives are blessed by grace, small inspirations that come to us so quickly by surprise and then we fail to give them any notice. 

my writing almost always starts soon after morning meditation, thoughts still slowed in their activity that it's now so easy to track their moment of appearance, how they linger and then begin to fade. This is when I most notice grace, from the first absence of ideas to a sudden inspiration of words and how everything flows from this point of wonder, almost as if my fingers have no need for thoughts and ideas to reach them and have an agenda of their own, typing words at the very instant inspiration inspiration arrives.

it's how writing happens.

and life, too,

 small inspirations given over time. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Simplest Thing

Simplest thing: 

it's the simplest thing, just listening, waiting, patient, and words appear completely on their own now, no search nor effort from my part as a writer. This used to be somewhat of a struggle, at least fairly often, not so much writers block as it was failure of my inspiration. Or so it seemed. But it's a mistake to blame anything other than my own impatient drive for words to come to me, relying solely on my own imagined talents and not trusting the very source of where my every talent lies. 

it's the simplest thing...

allowing words to come to me.

yes, I have a process, a ritual to perform, and yet really it's for my own convenience, a preparation of my mood for writing and meant only to relax my mind, readying me for the listening that's just ahead. What I want to do is to release myself from any expectations, not yet being concerned with worlds or inspiration, matching myself with the facing page, empty, and at once full of promise for anything to now appear. A writer is really nothing more than capacity, a vessel between words and page, delivering gifts that are so freely given from the source of inspiration. 

wherever that might be. 

that's not to imply that I am somehow separate from this source, that it lies within another world beyond my desk and mind. Everything is right here, now, existing in this very moment, and my only task is this realization, relaxing my pursuit of inspiration and allowing words the grace of their appearance. It's the simplest thing, sitting at my desk, listening to the play of silence, and it's the words themselves that ask me to be written. The source is here, present at my keyboards, enriched through typing fingers, brimming with both words and silence. 

it's the simplest thing...

listening.

and then writing what is heard.

~

Peace, Eric 

Fragile

Fragile: 

sleep is often a fragile thing for me, it has been for many years, not being swift in its arrival and so easily broken from its hold. There's seldom more than an hour or two of uninterrupted slumber and those hours are cherished as they occur. Meditation helps, breathwork and yoga too, but there are still long stretches where the deep quality of rest eludes me. As a caregiver, this trait would serve me well, being on edge with listening, sensing any disturbance in the rhythm of my father's breathing - I could readily respond and be there in an instant. 

now, there's just the listening. 

being on edge between two worlds...

awake and sleeping.

in these hours, breathwork seems to help most, recognizing that my nervous system needs a prompt towards the right direction, easing it to a more relaxed rhythm, softening, guiding my mind and body to a restful state of being. It seems the anxiety of sleeplessness is a self-feeding issue and this is common to so many of us now. We count the moments of our being awake, realizing the deficit of sleep that's created as these moments grow to longer hours and the night slips by.

 breathwork helps me break this cycle. 

sleep is still a fragile place for me, I sometimes find myself awake, listening, on edge between those two worlds. I'll use my breath to guide me, first by simply being aware, locating its rhythm from the belly, rising, allowing an easy fall completely on its own, and often this gentle awareness is enough for me to slip into the night's embrace. What's key though, is just accepting myself as awake, to give myself to listening without need of anything specific being heard, following my breath towards wherever it may lead me, lengthening a soft exhalation, relaxed, finding peace here, exactly where I am. 

a fragile place.

and yet I find myself resting there.

simply breathing.

~

Peace, Eric 

Observer

Observer

in physics, the observer effect is generally described as a disturbance of an observed system by the act of observation. After years of reading books on quantum theory, mostly geared towards the simplest explanation to the non-scientific reader, this is about as much as I understand, and I'm sure that there is still much that eludes me even here. Yet I read on, countless books now and with no better understanding than what I've read before - it seems somehow that the mystery that I'm reading of is my own self-description, quantum physics is the reality of my own observation. 

what I am is simply the observing...nothing more. 

there are many new-age attempts to blend quantum theories with their particular belief systems, and some meditation traditions liken their effects to a quantum world. I don't discount any of this, it's all too mysterious for me to make claims of what's so and what isn't. But I mostly lean towards a scientific view, not through any bias, it's just easier to understand the basic nature of things from this description, before it's tied to any story or belief. Although science itself is a story and often clings to its own traditions as well - so understanding this leaves me open to all that I read and study, not being firmly in a single camp of an infinite view of mystery. I believe only in possibilities. 

when I began my practice of meditation, decades ago now, there was a description of a witness stage, of reaching that point of observing mystery, being the observer. It's a wonderful feeling to simply be the witness, passive in observation, free of the effects of what's observed. It's so easy to get stuck here, as if it's the final point of years of meditation. Yet witnessing, witnessing, continuously and then even this has disappeared...there is no ultimate observer of the world, no final stage of understanding. Everything continues to be mystery, empty of any lasting state of self, even as a witness emerges from this endless fold of mystery. 

and that's it, really, my only true understanding...

witnessing, and there is no observer found separate from the observed, everything is let go of, and yet there is no one present actually letting go...life is simply happening, spontaneously emerging in events and structure, form being ultimately formless in its nature. 

there's just and only this,

whatever it is. 

and even it's a story. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Branching

Branching:

branching, infinitely so, and with our every intent and action we come to many worlds, versions of existence displayed through countless possibilities. Or at least that's the quantum theory proposed first by Hugh Everett III in the late 1950's and almost immediately dismissed by leading physicist as fanciful thinking, too outside the box for even quantum contemplation. Through the years though it has gained much traction and support, greatly elevating Everett's standing, a postscript to a career he left behind due to the dismissal of his theory. It's a quiet popular interpretation of reality now, a commonly accepted possibility of how time branches into infinite conclusions...

our lives displayed differently in every one. 

it's a beautiful term, branching, time being likened to a tree that ceaselessly reaches for the very next possibility, giving us another version of reality, our every choice and action, even those not taken, that each has an outcome lived through the many worlds of our existence.  

which version are we? 

what I love most about this theory is that reality itself is described a process, a fluid expression that's continuously at play, creative, and always changing in its arrangement. The real world implication, for me at least, in this one existence that I know of for certain - is that perhaps there is no certainty at all, that I am a process, infinitely branching, and that at each moment I am only really displaying motion, the fluidity of my expression that's even now being told in a thousand different ways. No, it's not many worlds, just this one, reality, consciousness, whatever term that suits our fancy...

branching. 

infinitely so.

and displaying right now our every possibility. 

~

Peace, Eric 

*Not science, and not written as a non-duality pointer - in the many worlds of every possibility, it's just the words wrote this morning. Nothing more. 

Beautiful Line

Beautiful line: 

there are some key themes to which I return to, ideas I often write of, this is a blog that serves of self-interest, allowing my thoughts to wander and explore. I write to be creative with the things that come to mind, not firm in any spiritual belief other than what the moment holds. With this in mind I grant myself the freedom to be wrong, or at least so in the opinions of others. My only real goal here is to create and share, a personal agenda of expressing a singular beautiful line somewhere within an entire page of writing, and with that one line completed, I feel joyful as a writer, a mission now accomplished. 

of course I hold these topics as important to me, my life has been drawn to meditation and it's tradition, yoga, non-dual philosophies, all things science and nature. Everything is tied to these themes, my writing circles around them all, playing with ideas that best fit my current mood and understanding, sifting through phrases until that hoped for beautiful line is finally delivered. 

and virtually none of this is planned, I generally arrive to the page only minutes after meditation and begin my writing as soon as my fresh cup of coffee is made, a ritual now of words and waiting, content to sip my coffee until an idea stirs me into writing. Generally it comes to these familiar topics, my interests are here, my life based upon exploring these concepts, curious as to how they will unfold. It seems that I am thoroughly an artist, as even my daily existence is a creative act, everything in service of a beautiful expression, however it might appear through me, 

so the meaning here is beauty, every theme and idea circles this, honing close, letting go of favored words and phrases that refuse to work together, symmetry is in mind, that it all should be a lyrical flow or nothing will be written at all. A beautiful line,yes, just one, built within a theme of interest, a layered text to deliver its expression. That's my true pursuit, my only aim of writing....

and it doesn't have to even be completed. 

I am content to be here every morning, joyful, simply doing as I am this very moment - 

writing, waiting, another sip of coffee, 

somewhere within these words...perhaps a beautiful line is written. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Of Coffee

Of coffee: 

my history of coffee - I've enjoyed coffee for most of my adult life, first discovering it's pleasure and ability to wake me me in my early 20's working an early shift at a job that didn't require much interaction with others until later in the day and the caffeine served to keep to keep me alert throughout my morning. At first I drank it for this benefit alone and only later acquired an appreciation for its bitter taste. I was a several cup of day drinker, without thought of being kept awake, coffee fit into my active lifestyle perfectly and seemed to have no negative effects on my health or sleep.

much later in my life, making and enjoying coffee became a small bond shared with my parents as I became a caregiver, aiding my father in his effort to keep my mom at home for as long as possible through her long struggle through Alzheimer's. My father particularly enjoyed a cup or two each day and reluctantly switched to decaf after suffering a stroke in his later years. Even then we still enjoyed the ritual of preparing coffee, small talk and watching the news together, an easy, unspoken of connection. 

after our divorce my wife and I still had a ritual of coffee together, a not severed connection that kept us close, intimately involved in each other's life. Our plans were shared, concerns aired, and our conversations kept us in the most important aspect of a true relationship. We communicated, deeply so, how important we remained to each other by keeping this ritual alive.

my own health concerns keep me to single cup per day, nothing serious, but it seems that coffee agrees less with me now, not as easy on my system as it once was, and any more than this seems to affect the quality and ease of my sleep. So I keep it to that single cup of day, it's a ritual of my writing now, still hours before this hint of dawn, my mind quiet from early meditation, and the act of preparation brings me to the task at hand, writing whatever words come inspired to me no matter how long the wait. 

a long owned mug sitting on my desk.

a gift from my mother long ago. 

really, a single cup of coffee is all I need, savoring its bitter taste, feeling the long connection of what feels like infinite cups shared with my parents, with my wife through many years, and now in the aloneness of these early, early mornings when it often feels like memories are all I have left. Yet this single cup, a link, and the words come to me each morning, these moments are never really kept alone - it's a ritual still somehow performed together, across porous borders of time and distance, an intimacy that's always shared between us. 

 and every cup tells me this is so. 

~

Peace, Eric