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what I really want to write about…

What I really want to write about is what it feels like to follow life, what happens when we stop controlling, strategizing, planning or directing, when we open to listening, risking and experimenting, when we are willing to embrace our fear of not knowing, and allow what comes next, by letting our energy guide our steps.

What I want to write about is my body, and the wild ride I have been on since I have let go of my ideas of what I thought was good for me, since I started tracking and trusting my sensations and intuitions, and how life wants to move through me.  I want to write about the challenge of letting life guide me toward whatever it wants me to feel and see… how exciting and how scary.

What I want to write about is possibility, how the potential of everything I see feels very real to me; and how frustrating and challenging it is to live in this gap between what is and what could be.

What I want to write about is my long pregnancy with poetry, the yearning to translate light and darkness into words that create alchemy, to find ways to move the chi, and open the heart, to all the life and wonders we refuse to see, whales and mountains, mushrooms and trees.  I want to bring nature back to life in my consciousness, so I can recover from years of autism and numbness, and connect with the world’s magic and aliveness.  In one of his poems, poet Drew Dellinger says he’s got teams of scientists feeding him data daily, and pleading he immediately turns it into poetry.  I want to be part of this army.

What I want to write about is the trash that washes every day over the shores of my awareness, how I spend hours feeling the junk that comes out of our collective unconsciousness.  I want to write about my nightmares about slavery and the Nazis, Rwanda and Yugoslavia, and how I am learning to partner with the long lines of ancestors that live in every cell of my body.

Bali, May 2011

This was my first free write, using Jane Brunette’s prompt “What I really want to write about…” prompts.   You can read more about free writing in the golden threads section of this website.  


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a hammock made of golden threads

In October of 2011, I had a beautiful 3-way skype conversation with my friends Jane Brunette, who founded Writing from the Soul, and Clare Dakin who started Tree Sisters.  The three of us were spanning three continents, and many time zones, that day.  Jane had just woken up in her forest cabin in the mountains of Ecuador.  Clare was taking a break from a roller coaster work day in the hills of Gloucestershire in Western England.  And I was enjoying the quiet of the night in my little Balinese nest, perched on the top floor of a little house located between a rice field and a tropical garden in a village near Ubud.  As the three of us relaxed into a meditative exploration, allowing our words and conversation to naturally rise out of deep listening and nourishing  silence, we marveled that this call could take place at all, and that we could experience such deep connection across such long distances.  At some point, Clare sighed and commented that this time together felt like “resting in a hammock made of golden threads.” When we decided to free write together for a few minutes toward the end of our call, we looked back at our conversation for a writing prompt, and unanimously settled on Clare’s words.   Here is my five minute free write below.

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A hammock made of golden thread,
a place to rest beyond conventional reality,
a place where magic can be born,
effortlessly, without all the striving
we’ve been taught is necessary
for wonders and miracles to show up.

Oh, to lounge in a hammock made of golden thread,
a thread that connects us to more and more women
who are willing to stop running around,
so that we can rest together,
rest in our awareness of what becomes possible
when we are able to deeply relax,
when we feel supported,
when we feel “golden.”

And when we experience that level of support,
when we experience that level of magic,
we could take on anything.

We might even try tight rope walking!

I had a vision of that a few weeks ago, in meditation.
I saw myself walking a tight rope.
I was surrounded by darkness, as if in the middle of the cosmos.
And I could feel the blackness calling me from all sides,
and inviting me to jump.

And in that moment, I realized how much I had been hanging on,
hanging on to the thread I had been following.
I suddenly felt a great fear of letting go of that thread, that rope,
and let myself free fall,
not knowing where I might go.

I faced my fear of death, feeling terrified of jumping.
Then I had an inner knowing I didn’t need to jump before I was ready.
It was enough to feel the invitation and the fear.

But now, I can see that if I were to rest in that golden hammock long enough,
I might find the courage and strength to let go of the rope
and discover what is possible
if I jump.


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When I think of density

Manhattan

When I think of density, I think of all the moments in life when I have felt heavy, numb, paralyzed and stuck.  I think of all the times when I have felt unable to find any kind of flexibility or spaciousness inside to stretch and take in new ideas, consider new angles, open up to new possibilities.   When I think of density, I think of big concrete cities like Manhattan and Mexico, where a gazillion human beings are scurrying around non-stop.  I remember living there, in “the big apple,” desperate but unable to find my own place in the world, or connect with the vastness and depth of life, blind to the forest and barely able to see the trees.   When I think of density, I think of red meat, and how necessary it feels once in a while to eat something really solid and grounding that can help bring me here, in this body, when my soul has taken off and I feel like a stranger in a strange land, unable to anchor a sense that I belong here on Earth.  I sometimes wonder whether the reason we experience certain foods as comforting is that their density gives us a sense of our own physical presence and ‘reality.’   They make us feel full, and fully here.   They let us experience some kind of warm, concrete and comforting presence within us, when we are unable to feel connected with that subtler presence that fills the universe.  When I think of density, I think of bones and muscles, computers and cell phones, houses and elephants.  I think of the strong and sturdy bodies of lovers with whom I felt free free to explore the edges of my own wildness.  When I think of density, I think of the way my black Labrador Lou used to sometimes press her head into my leg or chest when she sought my attention, and how I loved pressing back with my body, and meeting her fully there, in that place where we try to defy the laws of physics and see if we might be able to merge with each other by simply pressing into one another harder.   When I think of density, I also think of jackhammers, and how a dear friend jokes about needing to use one once in a while, to break through the concrete of some of my ideas.  I sometimes regard density as the enemy, but this free write makes me realize that this is just another form of duality.  I spend so much time exploring subtle energy these days that I forgot that density has its own beauty.

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10 mn free write inspired by Anthony Dunkley.  If you would like to experiment with free writing, look up Writing From the Soul and join our global circle.


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When I lie belly down on the earth

When I lie belly down on the earth,
my whole body sighs and remembers
it does not have to carry the world on its shoulders.
I feel instantly nourished and comforted
by her warm and firm embrace,
And I surrender all worries
to the pull of gravity.

Everything within quiets and settles.
I no longer need any reassurance.
I know the ground won’t let me down.

When I lie belly down on the earth.
I feel her feeding me sweet energy.
Life force starts flooding me
and I experience something akin to ecstasy,
feeling as nourished as can be.

When I lie belly down on the earth,
I am sad for all these years
I struggled, alone, to stand tall, be strong,
figure out my way through it all!
I am grateful I discovered
how comforting it is to be aware
she’s always there.

When I lie belly down on the earth,
I feel a sense of coming home.
And I think of my mother, and her mother,
and how neither of them were ever taught
to receive this much care,
nor give it to another, lover or daughter.
I think of all the men and women who spend their lives
hungering for support and loving touch,
and searching for that warm embrace
in all the wrong places.

When I lie belly down on the earth,
I wish others could discover
no one needs to thirst by a river,
nor beg for what the Great Mother
is always willing to offer.

I just let my body soften, and open,
to receive this love, this life force.

Like a baby whale,
nested against her mother’s body,
I draw strength and nourishment
from that great being beneath me.

10 minute free write
Bali, September 2011

 


what I really want to write about…

What I really want to write about is what it feels like to follow life, what happens when...
article post

a hammock made of golden threads

In October of 2011, I had a beautiful 3-way skype conversation with my friends Jane...
article post

When I think of density

When I think of density, I think of all the moments in life when I have felt heavy, numb,...
article post

When I lie belly down on the earth

When I lie belly down on the earth, my whole body sighs and remembers it does not have to...
article post