Writing Fling #8: Changes in appearance

Part 8 in 2015's writing experiment.

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It was usually the eyes that got him first. Shining in the dark. From the eyes he could start to make out the rest of the face. The distinguishing marks. The creases. The signs that a life had been lived. That experiences had been felt, and feelings timely felt.

He made judgements based on these observations, and they were not always right. Were they useful? Only as a starting point. A stake in the ground to start the negotiations. Starting and stating was as important an act as any, even if he got it wrong. He knew his thought process well enough to be aware and flexible in his judgements and quickly formed conclusions.

He would then make his second move, towards the face, the person actually. Sometimes physical movement. Sometimes through words. Always with compassion and gentleness. And humility.

As his words were slowly received by the recipient they would gently become receptive, disarmed even. The shape of their face would change; tension would be removed. They may even start to speak. To reveal a little of their truth. The fact was the journey was usually long; the journey to trust. And it was never fully arrived at. But bit by bit they would open up. Reveal. Expose.

A remarkable thing would start to happen during this process. People's faces would drastically change. It was not a physical change. Or perhaps it was. Sometimes people started twitching less. Allowed their smiles to appear with less constraint, less consideration. Tension would lift from their eyebrows and forehead. It was an actual physical change.

The change he noticed most was more about how he understood their face. The grooves, twitches, bumps. As people talked, the story of their faces made sense and became rich and deep. He developed affection for them. Their faces became beautiful as they revealed themselves. They may have been attractive or unattractive, it did not matter. As much as they were willing to reveal themselves, and connect with him, was the level to which their beauty came forth. 

Writing Fling #7: Climbing to think

Part seven of free writing in 2015. Some familiar themes I am still processing today.

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Oh how he could climb. Anything. Trees. Rocks. Mountains. Sofas. Houses. He seemed to have an inbuilt desire to mount the things he saw. To move over them. To reach their summit. Or perhaps it was a desire to get to know something more intimately, to become closer to being one with it. To feel it with his whole body.

When he climbed a tree he love the feeling of being hugged by the branches. Of being wedged between trunk and branch, and being gently caressed by the leaves. He loved the smell, and looking up through the canopy to the flickering sunlight.

He would often climb as close to the top as he could, and sit there for an hour. Rocking with the wind and contemplating all that passed through his mind.

It was up there that he first encountered her: Peace. Tranquility. He feel in love with her, and began to understand the important, crucial role she had to play in his life. The calling to a higher purpose. Of stillness. Of assertiveness. Of beauty and longing.

As he sat up there today he enjoyed the sun on his shoulders as he sat astride a strong branch. He was smiling and rocking slightly. He was starting to comprehend some deep truths about the nature of things. He was realising that there was not other option for him any more. He was going to have to live large. The days of playing safe were diminishing. It was time to amplify himself. To be bolder by the day. Not from a place of bravado or ego. Beyond ego - from his depths. And not for anybody else. On the contrary: for himself. He was just now able to tune into his most authentic part - his soul - his loins - his conscience. 

He was able to hear that voice with more clarity, more consistently. He was also developing the courage to follow what he heard.

He noticed that as he did this, he felt like he was hitting some groove. Finding some rhythm, or at least hearing it and moving to it.

Life was somehow easier. Not because it was more comfortable or predictable or safe. But because he was flowing with the twists and turns, and not against them.

Writing Fling #6: Am I able?

A timely piece from last year when I was travelling in Chicago. Timely as I am currently having a moment of wondering if I can do it, and it is encouraging to remember that I knew I would hit these kind of moments.

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Am I able to pull it off? To allow myself to be all I can be? To remove the limits? To plunge the depths and live according to what I find there?

The truth is, I think I can. I am on a path now and I need to keep on it. The project as started, and there is no compromise. There is something deep within me that wants expression. That needs to be realised, to be lived. I trust this impulse. I listen to this impulse. It is drawing me, calling me on. To go harder. Not to try harder, but to listen harder, to act more authentically. To stop and pause and wait and watch and wonder. To believe that what is in there is good and worthy. That its manifestation will be beneficial to all beings, including myself.

This is a moment by moment proposition. Of being curious. Of laughing. Of trying and failing and learning and trying again. Sometimes this will be hard. I will feel unworthy. Like I should know better. Like my experience is not good enough. Like I should have prepared more.

I will want to plan things. Line things up. Put a filter on my reality, seeing it as I want it to be rather than how it is. Or wishing it was something other than what it is.

Take this city, Chicago and my experience of it as an example. I don't seem to get this city yet. I am not in sync with it. I want it to be like my San Francisco experience, where I found an awesome neighbourhood to walk around. I am searching for that place, that feeling. I want to be able to tell that story to my friends. Perhaps Chicago is not like that. Perhaps it has something else to offer. And I think I am missing it because I wish it was something else. It may have something beautiful for me if I am willing to see it as it is.

That is my aim, intention, for today. To be aware of this city. To hear, smell, feel, taste and see it as it is. To understand its energy, its vibe, and what it has for me.

Writing Fling #5: Essence of coffee; diluted by tears

Fifth instalment in a writing experiment from 2015.

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I cry. Into my coffee cup. Almost empty now. Cafe almost empty now. I sit. Alone. Almost depleted now. Almost exhausted now.

Essence of coffee; diluted by tears.

Bitter. Invigorating. Annoying and artificial in its invigoration. Temporary relief. Temporary mask of feelings. Tears bring reality. Tears bring their own relief. Natural relief. Healing relief.

Moving into and towards the pain, uncertainty and fear. Moving there because of it. Because of what it is showing, indicating, highlighting. It is saying, 'This is the thing to explore. Don't mask it. Don't deny it. Sit with. Feel. Feel. Feel. Explore. Understand.'

It may take years, and then the smallest sentence in the smallest conversation may unlock the truth. The truth you have allowed yourself to explore more each day through going through the pain.

Head bowed. Hands on forehead. It is time to go. 

Essence of coffee; diluted by tears.

I drink it. Salty and bitter. Coffee should not be sweet, should not be easy to drink. Tears should not be sweet, easy to cry.

I pick up the newspaper, pay for my stay, and head out onto the street. It is cold, and raining, as a cliche would anticipate.

I put my cap on. Not sure what to do next I walk to the left. Slowly, without purpose.

I find a seat near a grassy reserve. The sun is coming out and the rain is stopping. I lower my hat over my eyes and turn my face to the warming sun. It feels nourishing. I may end up being okay. I may live again. I may love again. 

I feel wet from the rain and warm from the sun. I still have a legacy. My experience will not leave me. It will be transformed over time. Renewed. Reinterpreted.

2015 Writing Fling #4: A letter I have never written

A fiction piece from last year's free writing.

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I am sitting. My desk is one of my favourite places in the world. I lean gently back into my leather chair. It creaks. I feel at ease. This is my place. The back of the chair is moulded to mine. 20 years of thought, contemplation and writing.

I pick up my pen. Not this very ben, but I have used pens like this one for 20 years. They have become an extension of my brain. Thoughts flow down my neck, through my shoulder and arm, into my hand and seep onto the page through the ink.

I always write on paper. Somehow the process is altered through the keyboard and screen. My feelings become diminished, harsh, rectangular. The pen and paper allow for free expression.

I am writing a letter. I have my glasses on and I have made a start.

Dear Emily

It is with some regret that I sit to write this letter to you.

I tilt my head as I ponder what to write next. Emily does not actually exist, but the feelings I need to convey certainly do. She is a part of me; a part of my internal make-up.

I have expected too much of you. Tried to make you my reason for living. My salvation. This is more than any one person can bear for another.

I am 60.

And I may just be becoming an adult, a man. Thank God we get a lifetime. Thank God for getting older.

When I was 30 I wanted to be 20. Now I am more than happy to be the age I am. I now find it bizarre that older age is shunned in our culture, although if you do look you can find nuggets of truth.

Old age is your glory. You have lived, formed woulds and scars. You have done, acted, imprinted. And all those things are good regardless of what they were or what others said about them.

They have brought you to this moment. This moment of realising. 

Indeed I am responsible for my life; me alone. I decide what is important, and sometimes this will mean disappointing others. I have become comfortable with this, and how, dear Emily, it is you I must disappoint.

I know that part of you liked being my reason to live. Part of you enjoys the control that brings. This has ended.

We will still see each other and may even be friends. But this will be different now.

I will allow you to feel this.

Adam.

Writing Fling #3: Sentimental Shadow

Part 3 of last year's free writing experiment.

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Sentimentalism. The Brady Bunch. Why do we need to pretend that things are prefect? They never will be, never are. I feel angry. My heart sinks at sentimentalisms. Let's be real. Let's get real. Feel. Talk. No more bullshit. STOP PRETENDING!

Yes, my life is not what you want. Kind of not what I want either, although that is changing. But there is still good in my life, and there is bad in yours. The shadow is everywhere - one for each thing. Let's not dress it up in creepy circus clothes, covering it with cheap make-up and cheaper costumes.

I want to be free! There is a pain in my side that represents all I am not free of. I know I am holding onto something, but what? How do I work it out? 'In time', I hear my teacher say. The body knows, and will reveal its secrets in time. My job is to acknowledge what is there, what exists, without judgement or denial. 

It is there for a reason. There because I put it there. I has served me a purpose, and perhaps it sill is. It will reveal itself at the right time.

In the mean time what do I do? I continue in what I have learnt to date. The daily practises. The ongoing learning. The movement towards others, towards my depth.

I feel my humour coming back or perhaps I am expressing it for the first time. Part of me does not feel sorrow. Part of me has moved on. Maybe even humour is learnt: Through life experiences; through effort; through letting go; through responding to each moment as it is rather than drawing upon a pre-prepared laugh, line or lunge.

It is a risk, living moment by moment. It requires trust in oneself. Trust that I am enough. That I have lived. That I have wits. That I am smart and sassy. 

And I am.

Writing Fling #2: Awareness and Action

The second in a series of pieces I wrote in the midst of turmoil last year.

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Let it out. Open the suitcase. Find out what is in there. You cannot change the contents. They are what they are. Looking brings light to the unknown. Once it is seen and know, then you can decide what to do. Without the light there is only guessing, and bad guessing leads to ignorant action.

Knowing what is there may bring fear, discomfort, pain, joy, laughter. It will bring truth though. And it will set you free.

Because it is the way to live - according to what is real; reality. That is the way to good decision making, aligned action. 

Aligned with what?

With nature, the universe, my body. Integrity is the key world. A cohesive whole. Pure. Making sense. Ringing true. Radiating.

Listening to the conscience is opening the suitcase. Aligned action can be taken once the conscience is understood. But it is not necessitated by it. Acting is different to looking, and takes a different type of courage. The courage to trust what you see and hear. To back yourself. To know that it will be okay if you follow your path.

Okay then...what does following your path mean?

It does not mean safe. It does not mean risk. It means acting within yourself; you will be at peace. A peaceful warrior.

I know it is the action I am struggling with at the moment. Feeling okay with disappointing people. Let them down gently, but let them down if that is the aligned action. Let them feel it. Don't butt in and save them. It is not saving. It is denying. And both will suffer as a result. 

Do the thing that needs to be done.

Writing Fling #1: What am I?

I want to publish some pieces of writing from last year, in the midst of upheaval and turmoil. The writing is raw and jumps around, and reflects and important time in my life.

I will put these pieces in the category 'Creative writing'. I hope you enjoy them.

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Red, green, blue, white. What is your favourite colour?

My son asks this everyday. It is his first thought when talking about anything or anyone. He wants to get a vivid picture in his mind of this thing that he is experiencing. But sometimes he knows the colour before he asks. It is like he is not really asking. Instead he is playing, exploring, conversing with the thing in his mind.

What is it?

What am I?

What colour am I?

The bunyip was on a journey of self-acceptance and discovery. And so am I.

I am 38, and feel like and adult more often than I don't, perhaps for the first time. It is more that I feel I have agency, like I have responsibility for my life. And I am taking it. I have to. This is my moment. Of redemption and renewal.

If I don't take this one there may not be another. I need the surgery to cut deep, to remove all that is dead and injured and malignant. I have left it there like a passive for too long. It would have killed me, and perhaps it already had. But that is the thing with the internal world. I can kill and resurrect there with impunity. And I must.

Enter the maze. What dies in there needs to. What survives is gold. I uncover new depth, new understanding. Actually, these words are not enough. It is like my whole view of the universe is shaken, and I am left with what settles. 

But somehow what I am left with is what I already knew. Or perhaps had a hunch about but could not squarely acknowledge.

For me, this is called backing myself. Living with the minimal amount of things. And then I learn about the things I need to work on. Being willing to disappoint others. To feel disappointed.

I want to act. Be on the front foot. Space for my mind. For my will. Penetrate. Exert. Assert. Say. Do. Speak. Don't save.

I love. I sacrifice. I slaughter. I am peace. I am a warrior.

I like war. I like death. Inside me. To the things that don't really matter. The war with these things does matter. That is the stuff of life.