Something

Something:

something always comes to me, words appear, writing happens — it’s not about patience really, there’s no waiting, only a pause before ideas arrive and arrange themselves into some manner of a phrase. Writing is effortless, easy in the sense that I never have to search for ideas. Everything is present — or it isn’t. I have faith in the mystery of it all.

something always happens.

writing is life, an aspect of the same seamless activity that brings each season, cause a flower to bloom, and the morning to fill with birdsong. It’s all the same energy in varied form. I know that I’m not removed from this in anyway, none of us are, nor could we ever be. Writing happens, when season and cause give notice — words appear, I write, and life continues.

effortless, seamless.

it’s life.

why I write is never questioned, nor do I wonder of theme, subject, or words to choose — this is just my momentary expression, for whatever reason how my morning now unfolds. It’s something that happens, like every other part of life. I would no more question this than I would a sunrise or the morning birdsong’s — it’s all a gift, without reason other than a wish to give. Life continuously accepts itself, every aspect without question. I an included in this order, accepted without condition, given all I need to fully belong. I write because I simply do.

it’s just what happens.

~

Peace,
Eric