Writing to Remember the Things I Mostly Forget

Writing a weekly blog on spiritual growth is fascinating. It has become a consistent morning practice for me. I usually start with pen and paper and ask, “what wants to be written today?”  I love the delicious glide of writing with a fountain pen, watching words flow onto the paper in dark ink. I move to the keyboard once the shape of an idea begins to fill out.

Honest writing is hard work. It’s like throwing a vase on a potter’s wheel, except you don’t know when you start that you’re making a vase, so you do a lot of starting over. The drafting, editing, and re-drafting process forms a playground where I continually discover more about this spiritual road we’re all walking.

I write to clarify my thinking, to retrieve bits of myself that have scattered about, to find some ideas worth sharing with others. But perhaps the main reason I write is because I want to remember the things I mostly forget.

In the moments when I am spiritually lucid, I remember my inherent nature as a product of Spirit. I remember that the pressures and distractions that consume much of my time are not that important, that a river of loving intelligence is moving through me, that my true center is floating just below the surface, always available, always fluid, large enough to hold it all.

Most of the time, I forget these things. For most of my waking hours, I’m not awake. I’m caught up in the action of getting things done or irritated by the hiccups that interrupt my plans. It’s okay. That’s the normal way my attention wanders.

But when I remember, the world blossoms. A dazzling flash of color is unlocked when I notice that the sun has sent a patch of light millions of miles to brighten the simple pots on my porch. I open to the subtle energy humming through my body. I feel alive as the juice of the world animates everything around me. When I remember, I don’t have to make an effort to be present or act kindly – presence and kindness arise in me naturally.

I want more of this. So I write to remember, to continually rediscover the world behind the world that is always waiting for me.

There is something else that helps me remember:  knowing that you are reading this and finding it valuable. Your comments and personal notes inspire me. Thank you.

And thanks to the many of you who answered my three brief questions. (It’s not too late; you could do it now.)  I will be incorporating your thoughts into future Stumbling Mystic articles and DeepN Gatherings

Photo by Nicolas Thomas on Unsplash

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