Write! I must write. Now.
My heart was heavy. I was zapped today. I sat at the foot of the ocean while it churned in the dimming light of day. I knew its power but couldn’t let it in. I saw its beauty as it moved restlessly, or was I misinterpreting? Was it the freedom of life that it was revealing. Going with the flow, swirling, weaving, splashing, sending powerful spray high into the sky and hanging in suspension until ready for its descent, to rejoin, to swirl, to churn.
I couldn’t let it in. I wanted its power. Write, it said. I heard but ignored. I tried again to let it in. I wanted it to force away the zap. Write, it repeated. Write.
What do I write? I asked. My own churning was restless. Resistant. Fighting. What if instead I could feel it as life, as the movement of water. What if I let the heaviness of pain go free to swirl, to churn, untethered to thought, to attachment. Let it churn freely, let it splash recklessly, let it spray into tiny droplets, to suspend and then rejoin that which is voluptuous in the full bodied waters.
I wrote awkwardly, with resistance. But I wrote. Thoughts tried to come, but wouldn’t give birth. Or did they? In a brief moment I felt it in the eyes of my heart. Truth tears washed through my soul but soon withered in the heat of resistance.
I wrote while sitting in the weathered market in a magical little village on the California coast. The market is one place in town to meet. I sat on a plastic stool, writing. Whom would I meet? What me would I meet there while I wrote?
The words stuck together like the bent pages in an old book. It wasn’t pretty. But I kept writing. The ocean across the road and a block away from the little market was my teacher. “Write” was all it said. It hadn’t said what or how. In the midst of the stickiness I was free to write whatever would come. There was no expectation other than, “write.”
The horses had been telling me this for years. Today I did it with new determination on a quest to immerse myself fully. The zap unzipped and unwound into a Paul Simon song as I drove home with words and harmonies, beats and rhythms that churned and swirled, that splashed and sprayed, and suspended as I held my breath until they descended into all that is voluptuous, full bodied, and well-seasoned.