I recently attended a wonderful workshop for writers. (On Zoom, of course!) As part of our pre-work, we were asked to write something about our creative process and how it relates to the darker time of year we’re entering.
What happened for me was not a piece about the process, but an experience of the process. I encourage you to do a bit of meditation on your own process–whether or not you are a writer. Here’s what I wrote. May you also feel the flow I experienced as the words appeared on the page.
A Meditation on the Creative Process
It’s dark. That’s the opening line and now we wait. We listen. We anticipate. But we do not direct. I say “we” because this is a collaboration between the unseen and the seen.
Even if I’m writing in broad daylight, much of what is happening is unseen—or coming from beyond the veil where mystery is the ruling power and divinity the purpose.
To create is to touch the hem of God’s garment. To enter into realms where mortality is unreal. The big switch between what we have been taught and what we know is true.
Slip into the tender environs of the imaginal and bask in the glow of spirit’s inspiration. Here is love and relief from the harshness of a world gone mad with the material, the cruel, the profane, the false.
Winter becomes a blessed time of stillness in the crystalline white of snow that blankets ground, and ice that etches every blade and branch against skies of purest robin’s-egg blue.
I retreat into that purity when muse and music join in word flows that bathe my soul and bring me to the point of Self where all is beauty in the perfect expression of what wants to be spoken into the empty space of the blank page.
The joy is in the surprise of what emerges as story—a winding tale to follow where its characters have already determined the way to go.
At what point does creator become spectator—one who marvels at the process she has set in motion?
In sublime moments I have read what I have written and realized that I didn’t. I may light the candle, but it burns and gives light of its own accord. I may simply be enjoying the sensation of a really good pen with fresh ink moving across the page, making shapes like letters.
I write to be understood, to understand. And mostly to witness the process of being completely present to the moment when spirit and pen and ink and hand collaborate to put these delicate word patterns together as they have not been until this stunning, fleeting, miraculous instant.
This is immediacy—a spark that may or may not light a world. But that thrills my soul as I sit with lamps lit so I can see to write in the dark.