As ever, writing is a spiritual process, and, the truth is, I am finding it difficult to write anything of value these days. That is, anything worth space and words, for I am wrestling with the challenge of meditation, of prayer, of focusing on one single thing with my heart, mind and soul, instead of zipping from thought to thought, image to image, like a wild animal set loose in a city.
I was reminded recently that the act of typing, or scribbling, is not always the real work. The real work begins with the shutting out of external voices, demands and distractions. The focusing on what you have to say, not what the hundred of other voices within earshot are saying. To revel in the silence and wade through the muddle of your own mind--that is half the battle.
The other half is to just write.
I'm going to try to do better at this: of carving out time for myself to write. Somehow, I have begun to look at writing as if it were a task to be done, or a box to be checked off a list. It didn't use to feel that way, and I want to fall back into the old careful intentionality.
I need to re-learn the rhythm.
Re-build the muscles, like a runner training for a half marathon.
I want to trust that by doing a little more every day, I will be transformed into the kind of person who writes better with each week, each month, each year.
So, what remains of this month has been dedicated to the study of creating silence and space. It may mean earlier mornings or later nights, with moments of quiet snatched in between. But whatever it looks like, I am hoping to become a little more thoughtful.
And then, of course, to write.
nota bene: past bits and thoughts on writing, right here.