Monday, April 13, 2009

Reading writing

The best writing I do is that impelled by a strong emotional charge. I let go of trying to control the worlds coming out, trying to make a good impression, and let the emotion inside scream through the fingers moving and the black appearing on white and the letters coalesce into the outline of my heart, like dusting for fingerprints.

Tonight we talk about anger and forgiveness. Self anger, anger at what I have done wrong or am yet to do. My lackadaisical nature, my late nights, my inconsistencies and broken words. I am ashamed.

And always now, the paradox is attached to everything: I am perfect. Nothing to change, nothing to make better. I am forgiven. I am completely forgiven. Why? but there is no why or need for why. it is it's own answer. love and confusion, unworthiness to be loved and acceptance of the divine love.

I'm afraid to believe in myself because it means I will start moving, and taking risks, and that's scary to think about. That's why sometimes it's better just to do, and not let yourself dally with thoughts going in circles.

I read. Things click. I try to meditate, I don't know if it works anymore, if I'm doing it right. My body is mortal, my mind is fallible, my faith in Self is unshakable, but it is nameless, and all the words gather round it to throw stones.

It doesn't care. It loves them. The nameless non-existent man inside the center of my heart. The Mystery. The unseen, the unspeakable. Is it even knowable?

Too much thought.

All I really want to do tonight is bleed on the floor from my open heart and ask God where to find him. Is he on 5th street? Halfway out of town? I think he lives in the white house with the red trim and the quaint little tin garbage can and ceramic bluebirds on the steps.