A lot has happened in the past months and days yet it has been a while since I have written here. Or written anything for that matter. I observed this hiatus for sometime and reminded myself that it was alright to observe my thoughts or just to do nothing at all. I did not write everything down, it was not necessary. Yet somewhere at the back of my mind I knew that this space waited patiently for my return.
These gaps take me forward. I guess it is a sort of creative moulting, a hibernation of sorts. I wait it out and there is a growth spurt, perhaps I learn to see things differently, maybe say things differently, let go a little, hold on to the important things a little more.
There is a lot going on right now yet this posting does not do justice to that turmoil. This is the virtual equivalent of putting one foot ahead of the other. And another thing, I just bought some beautiful journal: pocket journal with beautiful covers, some larger books. I have been walking around with a cloth gag full of pens and a journal beside me, yet the words do not come.
In this impersonal space, (or is it not that)I do not see my handwriting, nor do you. I do not the urgency with which I wrote this or the beautiful script that would make my Amma proud ( not much of that in my scribbles though). This space is about disciple, of returning, of attending to the needs of the voice, of being heard, of saying I am walking this way today. I live in this gap and it is not a bad place.
These gaps take me forward. I guess it is a sort of creative moulting, a hibernation of sorts. I wait it out and there is a growth spurt, perhaps I learn to see things differently, maybe say things differently, let go a little, hold on to the important things a little more.
There is a lot going on right now yet this posting does not do justice to that turmoil. This is the virtual equivalent of putting one foot ahead of the other. And another thing, I just bought some beautiful journal: pocket journal with beautiful covers, some larger books. I have been walking around with a cloth gag full of pens and a journal beside me, yet the words do not come.
In this impersonal space, (or is it not that)I do not see my handwriting, nor do you. I do not the urgency with which I wrote this or the beautiful script that would make my Amma proud ( not much of that in my scribbles though). This space is about disciple, of returning, of attending to the needs of the voice, of being heard, of saying I am walking this way today. I live in this gap and it is not a bad place.
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