It might seem to some as though I was always able to write and produce very easily and freely, but no, that’s not the case. While I have many, many journals filled with writing, I had no idea how to transition from this to book writing. I was afraid and had to do years of work to clear blockages that were holding me back. This blog contains stories about some of the interactions I had with spirit while attempting to clear my writing blocks. I think these diary entries are from around 2004.
A pouring forth of heart
How do I write of the deeper feelings which move within me like celestial tides in the core of the earth? I know there is so much more within me and yet I know not how it will find its way forth… like a great river of stars that wanders lost beneath a barren desert, seeking blindly some pathway to the open sky. I wonder if this world within me will forever remain locked within.
I long to write, to express, to share what it is that moves my soul. But how? Where is the door to this place? What is it I must do, to alight this flame and make it sing with the sun?
For so long I have said ‘guide me’, and yet I wonder..must I simply take the leap on my own and surrender completely, more utterly? I see myself at the writing desk again and remember the last time I let go and began to fall. So much has changed since that time, but now perhaps, I see that I had sometime past come to land on a crevice and have clung. Would that I would ever, ever fall; it is all that I can do. Falling takes courage and I would rather be lion-hearted and soar free than cling like a tiger trapped in a cage.
“Come to me child. I am your world, though you fear me so. You tremble and cling to the mountain side, fingers red and bleeding. You cry for fear that you will fall and yet you know not what it is you fear. Your hands cannot fly when they must use all their strength to hold you to the wall. Please stop fighting the fall and let go. I am here, all around you and you will not come to harm. Fall with me and we will soar together, free.”
I cry now- I am afraid. My fingers bleed and my arms ache. I have been holding on so long. A part of me wants to let go and fall but another part of me is so afraid that this is a lie and I am being tricked into death, into giving up. Isn’t that what surrender is?
There is silence all around me at this. Many voices speak without speaking in that silence. And many voices listen. But what of this new feeling dawning within me? Please see if you can remember it, I ask myself. Please do not lose it before it is found. It is a knowing that I can make my experience whatever I choose it. I need not give my power away to any idea which makes me less, especially via fear. I always have choices. I am being asked in this situation, what would I choose: will it be to fall and soar with the knowledge of total freedom and power…. or will it be to cling with distrust and terror eating at my soul so much that when my arms finally give way I forget how to fly? I am more. I can choose.
I step away from the cliff’s edge into the void and face you. I have to keep breathing- there is so much empty space before me and below me, so much darkness that I cannot see into. I know not if I fall or where I be in this silence.
And yet…. I begin to walk. I sense I am in a chasm between two sheer rock faces, near to the top, but the top holds no allure. That is not why I am here. I am here to be in the chasm, to straddle the space around me and claim its magic as mine. My answers lay somewhere in this space. In the chasm. Not at the bottom, nor up on the land safe above. I have come here to find myself- my core, my deepest innermost self and I will not be leaving until I reclaim this depth as mine.
Back in the room, she plays music upon the piano and loses herself in the sound.
Wanting to Write, not knowing how:
“Yes my child”
“I’d like to write, to share what I ‘know’.”
“and so you will/do.”
“Just open and let it flow through.”
I see a rock which burns, its core a molten sea of flame.
An eagle flies above and turns, circling down on spread wings
slow and perfectly it is drawn through air which sings exultant
down ring upon ring
Inner Journey to meet my writing self:
The girl at the desk sits and waits for me. We will write together, she and I.
“I’ve already started without you”, she says, and indicates the room around her. Certainly, it seems fuller, warmer; mahogany bookcases alive with the colour of one spine after another.
“This is what you will write, you and I”, she says. Behind her are painting hung on the walls, framed in the same dark wood, portraits of characters almost real.
“What is your name”, I ask her.
“I am the Writer. I am that which fills the depth of the cavern and flames with life, somewhere within you. I am awakening.
I nod thoughtfully and pull back from these words, this vision, a little self-consciously, suddenly aware of the ‘real’ room I am in. She smiles a little. It looks sweet and slight, that smile. A knowing smile which laughs at me without making sound. It says ‘See? How can you follow me into this world when you cannot let go and fall? Your imagination needs to be free of self-conscious awareness if it is to grow wings and fly.’
“What are the books you write?”, I venture to ask. I am drawn to the bookcase again, trying to read the titles on the spines. I don’t think I can read them- the words won’t seem to form clearly in my minds eye. In fact, I get the feeling many of them have no writing on the spine at all. I guess I just want somewhere to start, but looking for titles that already exist? I smile to myself.
There is one painting on the wall that captures my attention. It is a painting of a dragon. I can’t see it clearly but I know the dragon is golden and there are golden star-like sprinkles. This is a character in a book…. in one of my books. I think I would like to write a book like the never-ending story, but for adults. One where the character is set in the modern world and in in some kind of difficulty. A magical inner world that spills over into the outer world as this person grows in strength. Sort of like Harry Potter stuck in the cupboard waiting for his time at Hogwarts.