on February 19, 2014

Writing, like Buddhist meditation, is an excavation of thoughts, emotions, motivations all the way down to existence.  The pure primordial being-ness that is my soul.  It’s so easy to get caught in the mundane, the superficial bits of our lives.  Much more difficult to burrow underneath to different meaning or greater truth, to that small nugget of wisdom.  It begins with the slick, black gooey mass of debris that slides out of our soul, covering us as we try to build barriers for protection.  It’s the monkey mind of busyness, or avoidance, or just plain old fear.  There’s this trick we play upon ourselves, to hide behind, to offer justifications, to consider ourselves not enough.  Not good enough, smart enough, trained enough, big enough, or even interesting enough.  But I am!  I know that I am.  I want to move past the broken plastic cups, the wadded pieces of paper lying on the floor, the whiny voice in my head that repeatedly tells me reasons to stop.  But I won’t.  I won’t stop writing.  I will not stop knowing that I’m capable, that I’m creative, and that my words, whether written or spoken, have merit.  I’m moving to the next layer, past that black, sticky, gooey covering to see what’s next.   


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