Ridiculousness of Being right

Ridiculousness of being right: 

thinking of science, philosophy, religion, spirituality of different sorts, and that as varied as they are, each has stories they insist as being true, some without compromise at all - and never once do they ever see the ridiculousness of being right. Of course science is by far the most flexible, holding to theories only until they're later disproved by new experiments and further information and then moving on from there. Science demands facts, proof of any claim to be made. But still it's all a story, even if some of what they offer is ultimately true, it always remains a version of reality, a story told through the lens of science, a particular branch and system of belief. Not one of these schools holds a complete picture of reality, no scientist, philosopher, religious leader, nor guru sees reality exactly as it is. 

we only have versions.

slices of a single truth seen through infinite varieties. 

yet still there's so often the ridiculousness of being right. 

perhaps the one who hits closest to reality, seeing things in relation and not ultimately a certain way at all, is the Buddhist sage Nagarjuna and his wisdom of the middle way. Nagarjuna makes no real insistence on seeing reality in any particular way, and is quick to dismiss every rigid view, including his own. What Nagarjuna sees is relations, everything dependent upon the emptiness of any set and solid structure, that nothing is real and permanent on it's own, but always shifting, changing, and therefore never completely true nor untrue -  only versions of a story told.

Nagarjuna sees the ridiculous of being right. 

and with this, he's free from any rigid view.

what I write is lyrical prose, and that grants me the freedom to be completely wrong in all I say, nothing is meant to be true here, there's no claim of ever being right, and with little thought of others being wrong. I'm only interested in the expression of this moment, whatever lyrical thoughts that may appear with an urge to now be written. There is no ridiculousness of being right, nor even a desire to be proven so, there's just my version of a story with infinite ways of being told. 

I'm free of my own point of view.

at least in the moments of my writing. 

~

Peace, Eric 

HowIt All Happens

How it all happens: 

every morning I write, sometimes with an idea in mind, but most often from whatever first words are given and then allowing inspiration to lead from there. In the moments just after meditation I feel most spacious, open, and words seem more apt appear and steer me in the right direction. So my morning agenda is clear, a familiar creative process, the patience for words and inspiration to arrive - and everything from there, how it all happens, it's a mystery now. 

I have no idea how writing happens. 

let's talk a little about non-doing, or really the non-doer, and how it ties in with creativity and inspiration. I think this offers the clearest explanation for how writing occurs, that everything needed for writing appears without any effort of my own, there's no real author here, only an aspect of the process, and for me to lay claim to ideas and inspiration provides more credit than deserved. The truth is that every word is honestly received, they're given, and in the clearest moment of inspiration I've lost all identity as an author and there's simply the flow of creativity, consciousness in a stream of activity. That's how it all happens, just like that, writing happens on its own.

of course later on, after the writing is finished, I'll claim the words as my own, that's when the author actually appears, a sense of doership and accomplishment return. It's funny to consider the pride that shows for something that so largely happened without me. This isn't to say that I wasn't involved, I'm not hinting here of channeled writing, but more clearly to show that the entire act of writing is a process, that life itself is a process, and that it all happens through the involvement of the entire universe as a whole, every aspect being a key player for just these few words to appear. 

that's how it all happens. 

to believe that there is a sole author responsible for these words discounts the entirety of this affair, it's laying claim to a process that really began at the dawn of time, before that really, to whatever first idea of energy caused that singularity of existence to expand in inspiration, bringing space and time along in the creation of its reach. That's the true beginning of these very words, it's all a process of that one original creative expression - and that's exactly how it all happens. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Uncertainty

Uncertainty: 

it's those quiet moments before an idea hits, no theme to write of yet, and I truly don't know what the first words will be - that's the allowing of uncertainty, being in the very midst of mystery, and not in anyway forcing myself to comply with the ego's demand for its immediate need for words. Writing should always have a degree of uncertainty, of simply not knowing what the next word might be and being absolutely fine in the silence that prevails. From that point on it's writing free from ego, inspired, and every word seems to arrives direct from mystery, delivered, whispered by the muse.

uncertainty is the gateway to higher inspiration. 

I often think of troubled authors, artists, geniuses who fought uncertainty through the abuse of drugs and alcohol, believing that any substance could keep their fear away, or produce and inspiration of its own design. This is art produced and forced by the ego, the original spirit of their talent subdued by the incessant demand for more and better displays of talent, being stuck always in production mode and unable to rest in the silence that precedes every true inspiration. Fear should never be an enemy of art, it's an ally really, a deep source of magic, leading to explorations of mind and soul, a revelation of ideas - and this is all released through uncertainty, those first quiet moments before a hint of inspiration, and an artist is suddenly confronted by their every worst fear...

that they are not the source of their own great talent.

and of course they're not, or not entirely so - yet neither are they ever removed from source, an artist, and in this sense we're all deeply talented artist, is simply an extension of life's creative flow, we're an expression given to the further cause of a continuous unique expression that's completely our own. That's dharma, our purpose, our true and only path. Simply to create. It's with this realization that we surrender, giving room for the ego to play and yet never taking its demands in any serious way, uncertainty grants us freedom in the exact moment of its appearance, no longer shackled to an ego's demand, free to easily express ourselves in whatever way the next moment may require, intuitive, responsive, and always, always, creative by design. 

uncertainty is the first hint of sudden inspiration, mystery in a whisper of surrender, urging us to relax and allow whatever's meant to follow. 

we are asked to trust exactly what we are. 

~

Peace, Eric  

Certain Books

Certain books: 

I like my books dog-eared with remembered meaning and affection, hard loved from carry and travel with me. Books, certain books, are life long companions, having earned their place through cherished chapters of revelation and the sheer delight of their expressions. My life has been changed and its direction swayed from reading just the right words and at the perfect time for their meaning to meet me. Certain books have been my spiritual guides, a coach for a new endeavor, advisors for a particular skill I wish to learn, and most of all a trusted source of inspiration and deep comfort in times most needed. 

certain books have earned their worn and dog-eared love.

there are some books from my childhood sitting on my current shelves, belonging to my permanent library of affection, the memory of their first reading still fresh within my mind. I have books that belonged to both my father and mother in their childhood, their love transferred through the now yellowed pages, yet every word still fresh the meaning that so stirred them many years ago. My parents were depression age children, my father particularly poor, and both their families struggled for the necessities of life, with even the basis often scarce and always hard earned. Yet at Christmas there was a book carefully and lovingly wrapped found beneath the tree, given at birthdays too, and these were gifts given from the heart, pennies saved through a long year of struggle and denial of many things that were certainly much needed. But the joy brought by just the right book, certain books that offered adventure, knowledge, moments of travel through the thrill of their imagination - every point of struggle was made worthwhile by the joy that was discovered in those pages. 

there are books I've long considered treasures, not to be parted from. 

my own childhood was troubled in some ways, although never poor, and always loved and cared for, there was a deep loneliness from an early age, being shy, often frightened by things that I couldn't explain then or even now. The only places where I felt that I truly belong were in the nearby nature or lost deep within the pages of the latest library find. Almost every week we made trips to the library, stacks of books brought home, and never a holiday or birthday passed without a book given. Many of them I still own. My never questioned my reading choices, never censoring my attempts to learn or read books that were far above my current understanding. On paydays they would shop for the months essentials and a bookstore was always a favored stop. There were books that called to me for still unknown reasons, beyond the adventure novels and paperback westerns that I loved there were books on yoga, Native American culture and mythology, mysticism and magic - and my parents never once said no to my request to buy. They understood something about me even if it was undefined by all of us, supporting my quest to find answers through those certain books that called for me to read them. 

years later, and I realize how blessed and loved I was. 

and even now, with my parents gone, my father just a year ago, their love remains through every book I own, shelves that display this deep abiding love - and with just a moment to browse the titles I am carried back to the heart of childhood, to the adventures offered through their pages, inspiration and information from years ago to right now and the current book I'm reading now. 

indeed, I am bless with love...

and certain books. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Ritual of Coffee

Ritual of coffee: 

it's now that first and only cup of coffee, a ritual of indulgence, and I enjoy the warmth of the cup within my hands, the wisp of steams that seem to carry the deep essence of its flavor, that first bitter sip that begins to wake my mind for early writing. My one cup of coffee is essential to my writing, it belongs central to the desk, equal to keyboard and screen, fuel for my creative fire. That's the power of ritual, it invokes an inner source of creativity and intent, it's spell-work in a sense, magic, and I commit myself to its belief not in any superstitious way, but purely for the sake of its enjoyment, a ritual of coffee, writing, and the silence just before the sunrise. 

it's how I start my day. 

meditation too plays its key role, my first commitment before the ritual of coffee. There's another kind of magic here, a soft repetition of the mantra that leads me to a quiet sense of mind, matching the silence of the morning in a seamless stream of listening. This sets the stage for writing, and really, for the entire day to come, there's a deep interior quiet here, receptive to every subtle note of inspiration, creative at its very core. Meditation is simply the recognition of this source, a ritual of a silent mind, and it's done for it's own sake, not to invoke the creative mind, but only to remind of its constant presence. 

obviously, I love my mornings, the ritual of how I start my day - this is my time of magic, the spell-work words appearing on an empty page, ideas arriving as if from nowhere and how they offering just a hint of the entire morning's writing. It's all magical, and I mean that truly, that I have no sense how any of this comes to be, happening completely through mystery, natural and easy. Magic, is simply what is, reality without the need of explanation, invoked by how we think and live. It's not a force that in any way resides outside of us, it's who we are, what we are, every particle of our existence. For me, writing is always a type of spell-work, involving specific items needed for its charm, bringing each word forth from the mystery of the void and then to fulfillment on a page - that's magic. 

and it all begins,

with a mantra, silence...and the ritual of coffee. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Lazy Writer

Lazy writer: 

I have to admit that I am a dedicated, but somewhat lazy writer, committed to expressing myself and writing daily, yet largely unconcerned with grammatical errors, typos, or even writing for any great length of time. Writing is part of my meditation practice, a continuation of my sitting that's now given to the action of putting words to a page, instead of listening to the mantra it's hearing the subtle inspiration that soon plays after. I do this every morning and have for years, decades, without fail. Yet I make little effort to perfect this as a craft, although I do take my writing very seriously, my only real concern here is a deep expression, a glimpse of soul appearing on the page. 

that's my only purpose.

yes, I think of myself as a lazy writer, committed, but only briefly. I write as long as the listening remains pure, nothing forced, and that it's all inspired, received directly from some greater source. By this I don't mean that it's channeled writing, nor is it always of a quality that reflects something of a higher inspiration. What's meant is that I listen to my own inner calling, a subtle voice that gives words to my heart felt expressions. That's what I write, those words, and it takes a purity of listening that's difficult to sustain, my quiet mornings of deep listening soon dissipate to a noisier world.

it's simply more difficult to hear the voice of soul.

so I write only as long as the early quiet lasts, waking early to lengthen this time, sitting first in meditation and then committed to the listening, with little concern for whatever theme may soon appear - I write what's offered, nothing more, content with even a few words. There's no anguish over silence, and little thought is given to writer's block, or of failure to be inspired. My role is to listen, only listen, and to write when prompted by the soul. With this I can afford to be a lazy writer, I am not responsible for inspiration or for finding just the right word, I write what's given. Or not at all. 

it's not really my decision. 

and either way, I sit, listening to the early quiet of the morning. 

content to be a lazy writer. 

~

Peace, Eric  

Tat Tvam Asi

Tat Tvam Asi: 

there's an emphasis on kindness now, just an easy display of care towards conditions of the world, towards others and myself as well. It all seems rather seamless, being unable to separate this deep love that has appeared, that it's really meant to be shared, given without bias. This is expressed in the Sanskrit term of Tat Tvam Asi, seeing that there truly are no others, we're all an extension of a single godhood appearing in collection as individual selves, yet at no point are we ever removed the whole. 

and seeing this...I can only offer kindness.

this isn't philosophical, it's not an abstract concept that's realized as a theory, it's far too practical for that, as kindness is our very foundation, our basic means of being. We live in a universe of cooperation, planets arranged just so, the sun being the perfect distance to provide our proper warmth, plants basking in its light and giving oxygen in return. Our world is a gift, and more so, our bodies operate in this fashion as well, particles forming atoms, countless molecules bonded as a cell, the infinite world is constantly giving of itself for our form and function. There are no real parts here, it's all a seamless display of cooperation and kindness, an inexpressible wholeness seen in the beauty of creation. 

tat tvam asi...yes, being exactly what we are.

and it's all that really is.

only this.

and it all comes down to kindness.

~

Peace, Eric