I’m noticing there is a dread of this moment. On second thought, of course, it is all the moments before this, before I start. All day there were things that popped into my head, and then the inner judge, who is interestingly getting kinder, says “that’s an idea, yes you want to talk about that, good”. But then, if I make a note of that idea, and I have to leave the balm of expressing it to go do the stuff of the day, like work and errands, and I don’t immediately go with it by writing more than just one sentence, there is a feeling of anxiety that I’m trying to put a name to right now.
One part is that it will leave, which is a very common occurrence. The more time that goes by before I can sit and throw it in the mixer, jumble it around in my mind on the page and sweep it into actual words, with each passing hour that I haven’t gotten it out, I feel more nervous, irritable and tired. I then want to escape from that feeling, so then will turn to a distraction. Then I notice that all that time that’s gone by being aware that I’m not getting whatever it is out, I could have actually sat down to do it.
But there were things I had to do! There are only so many hours in the day and I gotta pay the bills. And so, I’m going to punish myself for doing what I have to do because I’m not doing what I want to do, and even though that’s crazy, that’s actually where the downward spiral of resistance to doing it begins. I’m realizing I’m mad at myself, something I wasn’t even conscious of until now that’s actually saying to me I’m wrong or bad for not getting it out and expressing it, so I must not be worthy of it. Oh and the other ingredient in the self-beratement canon, it’s my fault. But it’s not a voice even, more like a net enshrouding me in shame; I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. And I’m not even aware of this at the time. I’m just feeling off about myself in some way. I’m in doubt. That doubt is what prevents the antidote, just sitting and writing. Because now it’s turned into another thing I have to do, something difficult, something I don’t want to do anymore.
But this right here, talking it out to myself in the moment, this flow of Source is my friend. And I’d been thinking of it more like the movie ‘Alien’, this terrorizing monster that’s been in me and the process of getting it out, so I can be ok again, is going to be torture. I’ve turned the idea of this, right here, into my enemy. But look, there is an energy that’s causing my mind and fingers to move in harmony along the keyboard. Yet it’s not even linked to my body or my mind. It’s the something else I can’t exactly define.
It has transmuted from this alien baby gnarling to be born and destroy it’s host in the process, into this gentle breeze that’s whispering “you’re doing it, look at you, I’m here anytime you’re ready, no pressure, no big deal”. Then when I listen to it, like just now, it turns into a waterfall. Now it’s the river below, and will continue on downstream, pushed along by the breeze, until it becomes a waterfall again. No alien babies anywhere in sight.