On the inside

My other blog post I posted first, last night, and though I wrote it later in the day. This is the first writing child of yesterday.  And my heart was so warm writing it, I guess I had better post it too.

 I woke up and went through some wormhole in time yesterday morning writing this, listening to one of my favorite ambient videos. So reading this post while listening to this music, would be good narration. I always think words and music are best paired together, and this was the song I listened to all day.

I was so absorbed in writing I didn't know that it was afternoon, when I finished---ish. 

I keep wondering if time is the same anymore. Days--mostly hours to me. The sun was shining, beautifully, I took my mom on a wheelchair ride, and cleaned out old sunflower stalks in my garden.

Sometimes coming out of my writing muse is a bit of a downer, because you look around and the zoom out lenses of writing gets close up again, and there's people to care for, and dishes to wash, and tears to wipe, and feet to massage, and mouths that need ears.

But for now.

Writing is the space where I can stop, look, listen and feel.

So this was my question I've been asking myself.

What would I write if only my eyes saw these words?

 If only I was the only soul to ever read them.

What would I tell myself?

And who is the writer of these words?

Who is the reader?

What are words?

And if I was writing myself.

What would I say?

Would I tell myself a story? Would I write down all the things happening in my life?

Would I want to remember the details?

Would write myself poetry?

Would I tell myself anything other than hello?

I love you.

I allow you.

I know you.

I feel you.

This has been quite a journey. This life. 

Wow.

Yeah.

Wow.

I see you

This you that is invisible.

Would I write down the places I’ve been?

Would I write down everything?

Or just some things?

Would I write myself everyday?

And if this life was a fiction, and I was the writer, what would I want to be in my story?

If it was a true life story, would I write everything down? My biography?

If my life was scientific. Would I write a thesis on the cause and effect of my life, and use a microscope to dissect it?

A romance novel?

Or a mystery?

Or a fantasy?

Or a geography?

I don’t really like newspapers.

And to just write in one category you might find in the library, would seem stuffy.

I don’t think any one of these would fit.

I think, if I was going to start afresh.

And write with no other words behind me.

And only a blank page behind and in front.

As this life only is.

Now.

I think perhaps it would be a little of all those things.

I’d makes sure there was lots of comic relief. Lots more pictures. More heart. Music. Magic. Surprises. Flow. Dancing. Beauty. Truth. Adventure. More fun. Beautiful words, so delicious you could smell, and taste them.

I’d write those down, and make sure to have an element of magic always there, always something to make myself smile, or look around for angels, or fairies silently working in the background of my life. Wisps of things I could catch on the wind. Beautiful messages written in unlikely places for me to pick up and find.  I would write down things that would restore my belief in the strongest superpowers of all--Love. Light. Truth. Beauty. Goodness. Laughter.

I really liked Nancy drew when as younger. I don’t know if would now.

To be a detective of my own life.

To see and look, and find my own clues.

To write until I’ve written full circle.

And found.

My truth.

As different people come into my life, and they talk, and tell me so much. And the words feel like someone tossed in the ocean, swimming over waves, sputtering, grasping, crying out for a higher knowing, for someone with enough space, with enough groundedness, someone to toss them a rope, so they can find somewhere to stand.

And I wonder, And as I’ve pondered what would be relevant, and most meaningful to tell myself. I don’t think I would want to monologue to myself too much, nor point fingers, nor scare myself, or try to get my own attention, or talk too much, or too loud. I also wouldn’t want to distract myself from the present. From living life, and loving the people that are in it.

Nor would I want to focus too much on the past, or future. I wouldn’t really want my mind to loop. Nor would I want to preach to myself things I already know.

I'd want to let myself have air.

I'd want to let myself feel safe, and seen, and heard, and loved.

I'd want myself to follow my bliss, and my heart, and my soul.

I'd write to let myself know that I'm okay. 

That my heart is beating, and my life, is beautiful.

I'd write to tell myself truth.

I think I would write, like I coincide with my sister, naturally, in the sun, or converge in moments to share our thoughts. To share our truths.

Where my heart speaks to yours.

And we share for a moment, the light, of our own awareness. That knowing space. Where there isn’t a separate self. A self writing, or one reading.

Only.

A moment.

A now.

A pointing to the clouds hugging the mountains, a pointing out different things that are seen. A bird, a rock, a moment. And we give it a name, a meaning by seeing it. And feel, the magic of our existence, and the beautiful story that happens, when we see the space, and the presence embracing it all, and embracing us.

And how beautiful that is.

And life seems, more living.

And the truth is seen.

And we share.

The things that endure.

Timeless things.

Timeless moments.

Love shared.

Treasures to be gathered.

Truths that bring us a little bit closer, so we can all see that we all are made of the same soul-stuff.

That we are all remembering, and forgetting, and reminding each other as best we can, who we are, and where we came from.

All experiencing this life in this strange, bodysuit. Wondering how we all got here? Wondering, if we are the only ones? Wondering if we are okay? Wondering so many things.

And perhaps, words were invented to bring the past, the present, and future together. So when we read, the presence that words came from, speaks to the presence in you. And we look together.

In the space of now. And there isn’t a separate seeing.

Just a see-er.

A heart space that is.

Not words.

Not the stories.

Not writer, or a reader.

A knower.

 A present moment that is a mirror to the source.

A place we can feel.

A space that flows from our hearts, that sometimes forms words, or music, or feelings, or objects.

The space of creation.

Where sometimes, if we are listening, we are led to places, and people, and words, and music, that give us a lifeline, to pull us up from drowning in the sea of stories.  To find the real story, beyond stories.

The place stories come from.

To walk with God on the water, to step out of our own boats, and find, spirit everywhere.

A space that calms seas, once you see.

Where all the books, and all the words, and all the wisdom. And all the stories, and all the heroes, and bad guys and good guys, are all preaching the same thing, once you know that space.

Pointing to the place where all creation came from.

And you find that none of us are set adrift alone. No character is orphaned from its author.

No castaway is lost on its own island, no matter how lost it feels.

No soul is without God’s fingerprint inscribed on it somewhere.  

A maker’s mark is always there.

Written on the back, or in the grass, or in the folds of the paint somewhere.

The author always signs their name, somewhere.

And so, perhaps, as we all look for clues as to where we came from, and where we are going.

Beyond our mortality.

Beyond our earthly clan.

We peer into each others eyes.

Looking for the maker’s mark.

Looking at words.

And books.

We listen, and hear and find the truest sound we can.

And if we are quiet, we will hear notes.

Like a flower, we will be drawn to a scent, or a perfume.

Or a note.

Or a sound.

Or a place.

Being drawn to the place where God signed his name on you.

And we find the maker’s mark written on everyone.

And point with our hearts.

As best we can.

To.

Places.

Seen.

And unseen.

To the inscription on the inside.