Magic versus Magical Thinking, a Practical Guide (Part 1): Of Recipes, Rites and Action

 

In the beginning, when people were evolving, power was present in the place where one found oneself—by power, I mean the inherent dangers of a place, such as raging waters, sheer cliffs, and roaming gigantic flesh eating creatures. Survival, in such places, came to be seen as a certain sort of blessing, and the people who seemed to have better survival tools (or rather who seemed to make better choices) came to be revered. Some of those revered people, when asked to what they attributed their success at overcoming adversity, might have said something like, “I owe it to the benevolent spirit of the place,” by which they might have meant that they had learned by experience, trial and error, how to make good choices in a hostile environment. Indeed, some people are better suited to survival in certain places than others, and this can only be the result of an education by experience that teaches a type of discernment when it comes to making choices, especially when the unexpected happens. Such people, when they die, become the stuff of legends, and sometimes the legends of such people become so famous, they are turned into demi-gods.

Another scenario related to hero worship is the worship of forces of nature, such as water, air, fire, quaking earth, and the like, seen and unseen. Survival of the fittest when it comes to forces of nature is also an aspect of the power of place, where the unexpected happening can limit or endanger chances of survival.

Yet another scenario related to worship is the reverence of any thing or being that produces food. In such a scenario, corn is reverenced, wheat is reverenced, cows are reverenced, and so forth.

I will say that none of these models of reverence is inherently incorrect; these are all valid examples of reverence and respect. With reverence and respect to the powers of place, to the life-giving powers of food produced in the natural world, to exemplars of right discernment and choice, one is able to learn from past example, build on that with innovation, and survive, even to the point of producing offspring that carry the species forward in time toward newer innovation.

I will now identify an aspect of these primitive forms of reverence that I believe to be incorrect: magic.

This is not to say that magic and magical moments do not exist or that they are irrelevant. Magic is very real; it may be the most real thing there is. Magic goes back to the power of place and the power of the unexpected. Magic is an experience, an awesome and unexpected result. The error comes when people believe they can recreate a magical experience by performing a litany of rites, instead of living and experiencing, learning. The error occurs when people do not, as the heroic exemplars of the past did (or may have done), use and build on the knowledge acquired through experiences of surviving the powers of place and the unexpected to make choices, then accept responsibility for inauspicious outcomes. 

Simply put, one person’s choice might work for someone else, but this is not necessarily the case, and is most often not. In the words of a song Doris Day sang, but hated:

“Que sera, sera

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see

Que sera, sera

What will be, will be

Que sera, sera.”

The Great British Bake Off television series delivers a concrete example of what I am talking about. At some point, all the participants are given the same recipe to prepare. Amazingly, the results are different for every single participant. Why? They are all using the same ingredients in the same weather conditions, with roughly identical equipment. Why is it that the results can be so different?

Recipes (receipts, in old style) are scientific formulae from the realm of the practical cook. Someone made a tasty dish and invited friends to dinner. The friends really enjoyed the dish and wanted to recreate it in their own homes, so they asked for the receipt, which was a list of ingredients, most often, including a sketchy explanation of how the ingredients were to be combined. The cook had been preparing the dish for so long, it was second nature, and they figured another (experienced) cook would know what was intended.

Here is a recipe from “Good Things to Eat as Suggested by Rufus [Estes]”:

Mushroom Sauce, Italian Style—(for macaroni, spaghetti, ravioli and rice)—a small piece of butter about the size of an egg. One or two onions, cut very small. About two pounds of beef. Let all brown. Prepare as you would pot roast. Add Italian dried mushrooms, soaked overnight in hot water, chopped in small pieces. Add about one-half can of tomatoes. Let all cook well. Salt and pepper to taste. Add a little flour to thicken. 

The beef, is it cubed or a slab of meat? Small, medium or large onions; yellow or red? What quantity of dried mushrooms? What size can of tomatoes are we talking about? Do you know how to make pot roast? Is this done in the oven or on the stovetop? What sized pot to use? Any added liquid, or do the tomatoes suffice? At what temperature? For how long?

The experienced, practical (that is, practicing) cook can take that receipt, procure the ingredients, and turn them into a delicious meal. In the hands of others, “results may vary.” And that is the truth of the matter, results do vary; life is not cast by lots, nor can the turn of a card predict outcomes—that is magical thinking. 

That’s all for now. Not sure when the next installment will be, but I can say that it will have something to do with praxis, religion, reason and governance.

Dromedary Dreams

 

Journey of the Magi, James Tissot, c. 1894

Silent footfalls belie big burdens
—traces of feet will be gone by morning,
shrouded by wind-sifted curtains.

God is completely present, even
in these evening breezes;
every desert is wholly a part of Eden.

With all the planets aligned
to the fullness of ascended moon,
light is abundantly consigned,

Accompanied by comet and star
—all is made bright and visible;
no matter where you stand, there you are,

seen. Yet, onward we ply and plod,
destination unknown,
as they say in the Land of Nod.

Being—to be—good, by deed,
word and thought, is to lodge in a place
so full of goodness, there is no need

to be elsewhere; such is the goal.
To find, there within goodness, a refuge,
where to coalesce and be whole,

in spirit, mind and body,
this is what the dromedary dreams of,
while traversing the ancient wadi.

12/23/2021

For Epiphany

© Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Notes/Commentary: 

* Genesis 3:8-9, some translations suggest the Divine Being enjoys a walk in the cool evening breezes.
* Moon, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus to aligned around (Dec. 10), joined by the moon.

* Comet C/2021 A1 (Comet Leonard) will be visible throughout December 2021 and into early January 2022

* The mythobiblical Land of Nod is located east of Eden, from which Cain was banished for murdering Abel. But this is less about a story and more about a language. Nod is the root of the Hebrew verb “to wander.” Related words reflect meanings ranging from vagabond and fugitive to being disturbed, agitated or moved. To “live in the land of Nod” can mean “to live a wandering life.”

My friend Bajun R. Mavalwalla posted Tissot’s work on his Facebook page, along with some thoughts on the magi, from the traditions of his family. I woke up a week later with the words “dromedary dreams” in my mind. Since the words showed up, I thought I’d better work with them!

This poem is meant to be lighthearted and from the point of view of dromedaries, the common pack animal of the middle eastern deserts. Humans (with their baggage) run all over the place, trying to find the person, place or thing that will make existence perfect (“destination unknown”). The dromedaries in this poem rather think you don’t have to run around to find that—well, perhaps they would prefer to find, stay and experience the goodness of a single place, any place that is illumined by Divine light. (This would certainly save wear and tear of the desert sands on dromedary feet!). 

Ultimately, this is a story of immanence, the holiness of the seen and unseen. People run all over, looking for holiness, when in truth they are surrounded by it, if only they could see and be illumined/informed by the signs, and act in accordance with them--that is, with responsible stewardship and benevolence. Rather than make this a story about astronomers from Persia with three gifts for a baby messiah, my rendering is intended to honor the traces of Zoroastrian monotheism that come to us through the Hellenist Judaism of Philo and Christianity—the transformative threefold ethical path of good thoughts, good words and good deeds.

E.T.E.

Of Time Before Time After

A flutter of wings at my ear,
a pointed gaze of greeting
— all at once, a welling memory,
a time of knowing soul before words,
a completely other kind of knowing,
offering clarity to this experience
only from within sleep and dreams.

 

The amplitude of such interiority,
speaking as if from shadowed recesses,
is perhaps all that remains of that time,
all this time after time,
time filled with learned speech,
this a wholly different way
to perceive and filter experience.

 

The hummingbird,
having partaken of the offered nectar,
turns to me once more, as if to say,
“Yes, friend; we were there together,
remember?”

 

Such deep remembrance
renders planned trajectories irrelevant
to what is possible
when you look up,
reach out,
let loose and—
like the beautiful bird
—fly.

  

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

 

 

***

Memory is an astonishing attribute of mind and consciousness. 

 

This bit of writing is an attempt – in so many ways unsuccessful – to indicate an aspect of mind that I remember vaguely from my pre-verbal self in infancy. This memory is triggered every so often; last evening, what triggered it was reading this very brief passage from a lecture given in February of 1982 by Michel Foucault (published, with many other lectures delivered at Collège de France, under the title “The Hermeneutics of the Subject”): 

 

What is it to be free? asks Seneca. And he answers: To be free is effugere servitutem. 

I followed the footnote to see the more complete quote from Seneca’s Natural Questions: liber autem est qui servitutem sui (to be free is to no longer be slave to self).

And, somehow, that moment is when a recollection came of this moment I would experience before sleep, in the age of my infancy. What I remember is the sense that it seemed not so long a time before when understanding was easier because I was unencumbered, that is not enclosed, in the awkwardness of an untrained body. I can remember being put to bed, and being sleepy, and questions forming in my mind that were not tied, really, to language, as we who have words understand and experience language. My questions were about my daily experiences, about the things I did not understand. These would roll forward like an ebbing tide. Answers would flow back. The answers came in a form I cannot express; they were lengthy, precise, all at once simple and complex. Such answers would calm me and allow me to relax into sleep, but they were real answers that informed me; I recall that each night, the questions were always different, the answers were always new—like an onboard learning system, if you will.

 

Once I had attained language skills, this pre-language fell away—and I can viscerally recall feeling it recede, feeling it slip away, as it was no longer needed. Now that I had words, I could speak them to people, and get answers in that way. I can remember still reaching in my mind for that other kind of knowing, always on the way to sleep, and sometimes would still get responses. 

 

I cannot remember anything describable about this pre-verbal knowing, except that it was, and that I remember it because I experienced it, and the memory remains a part of my consciousness. In these moments when I remember it, I sometimes wonder if it remains a latent aspect within, and if perhaps I will encounter it again, in my latter days.

Meanderings on Motherhood

There was that time, long ago,
(but when I picture the photo in my mind,
I can recall it as if it just happened),
Your voice urged, “Go! There’s dad!”
and these feet (much smaller)
carried this body (tiny then) upright,
for the first time in recorded mystory.

Since then, to now, such a stretch
of rolling and running and walking long trails,
working on words,
how they are formed
on the lips and in the mind,
naps and daydreaming,
watching motes of dust
float through the air,
the sacred holding of ladybugs
in small hands and large,
skipping beside you,
my hand in yours,
later walking on my own.

Of the countless adventures:
The tiny kid on the painter’s ladder,
“But I can do it, mom!
I can go all the way to the top!”
I clearly remember saying,
and when I got there, I looked down,
to realize that up and down are
two wholly different skills,
and your fear-of-heights coaxing
“But it’s time for lunch,
I have your favorite, all ready,”
literally willed my safe descent
from the edge of the rooftop.

Only a superhero can do that,
I hope you know.

Cups of sweet, milky coffee,
in the time-honored tiny tea set,
with fresh from the oven cookies,
punctuated long days of discovery;
who knew that spiders, large enough
for Tiffany the standard poodle to bark at,
could emerge from under an old house,
or that summer swim lessons would
require you to wear your winter coat,
while blue and shivering kids paddled,
as you observed from the stands?

Rescues, both small and great:
the bus-missing preschool finger-paint project,
that found me walking wrong-way home;
the playground knee-roll over broken glass,
requiring a taxi ride to Emergency,
where an old man walked through the plate glass door,
as if to continue a theme of shatteredness;
your calm voice calling to me from up the block
while a stranger tried to lure me with a lie,
through his car window.

Further opening windows of consciousness,
the daily theme, from the portholes
of your piercing brown eyes to my own,
everything an exercise in expansion,
from cultivation of flowers
to the care of small creatures,
from the march against war
to the long bus ride to help
in the marina after the bay oil spill,
for we must save the sea birds.

Over time, these portholes on the world
have upgraded themselves from transoms
to casements and skylights, even bays
clear or color-stained like gems,
to picture and double-opening French windows;
Windows on the world within and without,
these aforesaid windows of consciousness,
this is extraordinary vision,
mapped as the starry heavens,
and the young must first be led
on all the well-trodden paths
before they can forge any path on their own.

The painstaking after-school reading lessons,
for this late bloomer, a first opening
to the greater world beyond our time and place,
leading to the sharing of books and music,
endless school art shows and concerts to endure;
How you and every pet in the house
stood the squawks and squeaks
of an inexperienced bow across the strings,
I’ll never know, even though
every pet in the house slept at the epicenter,
and you sat proudly through every concert,
from violin to voice. 

And I know now,
         I now know,
through my open window,
         what it was all for,
what it meant to you,
         what it means to me,
having relived it all,
         in a different time,
and with a different voice.

And I want you to know that,
         though you are far away,
the little hand of your child
         still reaches through open windows
of consciousness and vision,
         finds your warm hand,
ever-curious mind and open heart,
         and feels your mommally hug.

Love,

         Elisabeth

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//
Top photo: Mom has given me little kirigami to throw into a bowl of water, where we watched them open into flowers, circa 1962.
Bottom photo: Me with my twins when they were very young, circa 2000

Clinamen (Swerve)

Straight lines bend,
like the supple willow branch;
even light can bend around a corner
and the voice in song
can, in the right conditions,
pierce the equanimity of the soul.

A passing thought might lead to an idea,
or it might land to resting point,
or even dissipate
into a cloud,
perhaps to reappear
—  though maybe not —
or reform in re-emergences
symbiotic with certain concurrent vibrations.

Being arises,
blossoming forth
from omnipresence
in unique expressions
based on exposure with
any surrounding elements;
attraction to certain resonances
or even repulsions,
conversions and distractions
divert every linear trajectory.

Continuity,
shaped by chance encounters
along the omnizon
with any resonant factor,
might follow a path
or diverge.

Differentiation
need not be disorienting;
every voice finds a place in the choir,
and while yet singular,
can by agreement
coalesce harmoniously
in a timely flow of momentarily
cascading resonances
punctuated by titillating,
even thought provoking, dissonance.

Each and every pathway leads,
whether blazed or followed,
divined or diverted,
elemental in its own way;
the traveler experiences
a full and varied range of
compliance or resistance,
from and with, betwixt and between,
toward eventual results that,
on one hand,
resolve to known
quantities, weights, measures
and tonalities,
though on the other,
fruitions that may never
accumulate or articulate in such a way
as to be seen, heard, felt or fully known
in the open-work of space and time. 

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This is somewhat in memory of Dixon Adams ("Uncle Dodds"), that late, great book pusher, who would be tickled to know that I have found myself on a pathway through western classics, his specialty. A Lucretian/Epicurian martini of thought, blended with a whiff of Antonio Negri and Gilles Deleuze... 

Aurora

Greater than the sunrise seen
is the one felt by the ascendant soul.

Beyond time and place,
bound neither to noon nor night,
experience expands or contracts
only in accordance with realization.

In truth, this dawn is
a wholly different
revolution.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Starlight Ballroom

With a subtlety
bordering on flagrancy,
every outer contour
of awareness
opens to the great dance.

So many strive
against conformity
by conforming;
proclaiming their uniqueness,
they spiral inwardly toward implosion.

Can you keep a secret?

This world of light and dark,
of beauties seen and unseen,
does not feel any dominion we claim,
and only just tolerates our presence.

In ever expanding waves of motion,
patterns weave an imperfect math,
advancing the latest musical form,
one poised to rend the fabric of time
and make everything new.

Given the choice,
I would rather unravel
into starlit dance.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sonnet on a Poem by Ch'iu Wei

To this place, at the mountaintop,
have I climbed, in search of you and of truth;
my knock at the door echoes without stop.
Table and hearth are revealed in the booth,
but your presence is lacking, forsooth;
perhaps you fish the pools of the river.
In vain have I called on you, so uncouth

my need to know, guised to deliver

greeting. Instead, visited by shiver

of fresh rain on grass and murmuring pines,

thus I breathe in peace, sliver on sliver,

‘til purified, cleansed, emptied of designs.

Descending your mountain, light on my feet,

I know I’ve been met, and now am replete.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

A note to readers:

This sonnet is the result of an experiment. A hyperactive reader, I far too often (for the sake of my pocketbook) find myself in bookstores. I particularly like secondhand shops, as there are treasures to be found that are no longer in print; many of these are unlikely to ever be reprinted. One such treasure, a recent find, is a Chinese/English printing, entitled (in Chinese and English) “Three Hundred Poems of the Tong Dynasty.” It is a trade paper, sewn edition. Because I cannot read Chinese, neither do know the publication information or year, or the name of the translator(s). The only clue I have as to the book’s origin is the book seller’s stamp in the back of the volume: Hansan Trading Company, 28 Pell Street, New York, NY 10013; This business no longer exists.  

While waiting for my dental appointment to begin, I opened the book and started reading. One poem, not very far in, struck my eye. Thematically, the poem represents so much of what I feel life is like and about, for me and for many others: A trip through the wilderness, in search of answers.

This is the poem, as translated (by Witter Bynner, I later discover) in the Hansan Trading Company book:

After Missing the Recluse on the Western Mountain

To your hermitage here on the top of the mountain
I have climbed, without stopping, these ten miles,
I have knocked at your door, and no one answered;
I have peeped into your room, at your seat beside the table.
Perhaps you are out riding in your canopied chair,
Or fishing, more likely, in some autumn pool.
Sorry though I am to be missing you,
You have become my meditation—
The beauty of your grasses, fresh with rain,
And close beside your window the music of your pines.
I take into my being all that I see and hear,
Soothing my senses, quieting my heart;
And though there be neither host nor guest,
Have I not reasoned a visit complete?
After enough, I have gone down the mountain.
Why should I wait for you any longer?

Digging around on the internet, I found this translation by Mike O’Connor (at https://www.unf.edu/mudlark/mudlark07/recluse.html):

On Failing to Meet the Recluse of West Peak

On the mountain top: 

one thatched hut,

thirty li 

from nowhere.

Knock on the door: 

no servant to answer.

Look in: 

only a table for tea.

The firewood cart 

is covered;

have you gone fishing 

in the autumn stream?

I looked among the pools, 

but missed you;

wanting to pay my respects,

they must go unexpressed.

Grass shines 

in the fresh rain;

pines murmur 

at evening windows.

Here, at this moment, 

a harmony deep and unrivaled;

the self completely cleansed, 

the heart, the ear.

Although there is no 

guest and host precisely,

I'm able to intuit 

your pure thought.

Purpose fulfilled, 

I head back down the mountain;

what need now 

to wait for you?

Looking further into the matter, I find out that this book is an iteration of the classic collection of poems from the Tang Dynasty (618–907), first compiled in the Qing Dynasty by the scholar Sun Zhu, around the year 1763. Ch’iu Wei or Qiu Wei or 邱為 lived from 694 to around 789, and his work is represented in this anthology by this single poem. The poem was written in a form known as five character old style or Gushi. I will leave you to investigate the form on your own.

While I was having my teeth cleaned, I was rolling this poem around in my mind, and I wondered if I could take this material, which had been translated into free verse, and work it into at least somewhat of a metrical setting. I don’t know why I selected the sonnet form—perhaps because the way the poem is presented in Chinese is in groupings of five characters.

As to the success or failure of my experiment, that is up to you.

Meditations in Fast Times: 21. The truth of the rose

Note to Readers: “Meditations in Fast Times” is a devotional writing experiment for the Season of Lent. Each day during the season, I am writing a poem as a meditation on, taking as my inspiration and intertextual basis, T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, as well as incorporating the daily office, current events, and other readings—some the same as those Eliot used while composing his seminal work and others.

                21.

The truth of the rose,
lies in no ghostly apparition,
but as that sweet music,
borne among clouds as a dream,
that passes through the waves of the sea
to be born into the garden of our seeking.

The truth of the rose
defies test tube and lab;
for in as much as the volatile ester
can be created beyond cloud and sea,
the truest circadian emission of rose
can only be realized in the garden of experience.

The truth of the rose
lies enfolded in the mystery of eternal, recurring Spring,
which willfully disturbs the world with vibrant color and
soulful perfume that cannot help but rise like delicate music
through our tender senses and memory,
in the gardens of earthly reality and of Paradise.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 5. August and loveliest

                 5.

August and loveliest,
the middle-way tree
stands at heart, soul and center
of the garden of our seeking;
where we start from is home.

As clerkes fyndyn wretyn,
said tree was a delight to the eyes
and desired to make one wise,
if only one hooked the bait
and took of the fruit and ate,
though it was against park rules,
as surrounded by pits and pools,
confounding most efforts to harvest;
though a few did win the quest,
they were banished for their saucy ways,
setting a poor example for latter days,
even if felix culpa.

That was a kind of start.

All the places we go from home
are where we derive experience
and knowledge;
we all learn from our mistakes.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Storm Eye Witness

From a troubled sea, I came;

From the tumult of my crashing waves,
longing for relief from my raging storm,
I came from a troubled sea.

Greeted by no berceuse
in this port from my storm,
instead by ringing and singing,
a laughing and crying and carrying on
about out and in relationships, on and off
emotions, pitching sonic waves and weavings,
an undulating web of rattling words in herds,
like the very waves I’d fled.

Troubled seeing, I became
witness to my world and wavering,
aware now that my dreams and waking
must be born of a troubled sea.

What started with prayerful hopes
ended with praying and awaking to active now;

I went up to thank them, to thank her and she,
but she conferred further blessing.

“You brought calm,” said she,
“having you here was calming,
like an anchor for our tossed ship,”
and from her I received kisses,
as though I had been the gift.

Thus anointed, I turned away,
thoughtfully moved to my return:
Eye of the Storm, I seem to be,
though storm-tossed I had felt;
calm came with me in my pocket,
along with my keys, my hanky and tears,
and fragments of hope and place
—and I never knew it was there.

I have had eyes, but did not see,
ears, but they did not hear—until now:
when you become the Eye of the Storm,
calm comes to be a friend and guest of your heart,
to share in the love, the pain and the laughter,
the onward, spiraling music of your being.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Updated 8/28/12:

Most of you don't know this, but my poetry is my diary. I sometimes write infrequently, but when I do write, it is to crystalize an experience that stands out and apart from the everyday. Music often inspires me. This particular poem was inspired by a performance of new chamber music in San Francisco by CMASH (an acronym for Chamber Music Art Song Hybrid). It was a wonderful performance! The lesson here: Art Inspires More Art!!! Find out about the wonderful people who make music happen at CMASH, and how you might even make a donation, by following the link. http://www.cmashmusic.org/

This Business of Poetry, Part 7: Flow, Wherein the words flow onto the page

There are times when words flow onto the page. There is no doubt about it; inspiration frequently comes as a storm, even a flash flood. I mean by that, of course, that such storms do not last, but pass through you.

Those rare occasions when you are primed and ready, when you have pen and paper or keyboard to hand and the words start flowing like a waterfall onto your page, such occasions are absolutely amazing! Often, what flows out onto the paper started as a tiny idea and ended up as a torrent of unexpected text.

I cannot explain how this happens—or why—but it does happen. This started happening to me when I was about 12 years old. I would be awakened in the middle of the night with words on my mind; I was unable to go back to sleep until I wrote down what was on my mind.

To this day, much of my writing comes from these late night nudges.

Do such nudges “come from somewhere”? That is a question I cannot answer. Unconscious, subconscious, dream-work, lucid dreaming—these are all terms that may have validity in such discussions about creative work, and you can explore these on your own. Wherever the words “come from,” what ever hits the page is real and valid.

Is there a “muse” or “guide” that is “helping” you with your work? Here again, I cannot answer such a question for you.

I do tend to feel as though there is a muse involved with my own creative process. Is that silly? Perhaps. However, I believe that there is a revelatory aspect to the creative process. There are times when I read through the material that has “flowed” onto the page and I think to myself, “wow!” The “wow” can mean “I didn’t expect that train of thought to go there,” or it can mean “I can’t believe I wrote that,” or it can even mean “gee, I need to look at that more closely and think about it in order to figure it out.” The work that flows is a gift that leads to more thought and more work. It can often be a “note to self” about your life.

Is there anything you can do to make creative flow happen? NO. Absolutely not. If nothing is happening, don’t beat your head against a wall; the time is not right and the ideas are not ripe. Better to go for a walk, or listen to music, or read.

Creative flow is a marvelous experience, but I don’t think that absolutely everything that comes from such experience is necessarily complete or good. The work can often take turns that you do not intend, and it is up to you as to whether you want to retain digressions or cut them from work you intend to complete. Digressions can be useful to retain for further development.

Creative flow does not replace editing, revising or reworking material. Yes, there are rare times when the flow hits the page and you feel like it is done. Though you can’t expect this to happen often, you can treasure it when it does.

I am a strong advocate of saving work process in the form of handwritten notebooks. I sometimes work directly into the computer, but not often.

Whether you have a “muse” or work by means of  “automatic writing” or not, the experience of flow with regard to your writing can be thrilling, the resulting work is a passionate example of what is most authentically you. Savor such times!! They do not come frequently.

Could more be said? Of course, but this is enough to get you thinking about it all, in relation to your own practice.

_________

Next time: What To Do In The Desert While You Await Inspiration