Every morning without fail, I meditate. In the past year, I have missed less than a handful of days: two of which due to the flu and absolute delirium, the other three during my recent move 1100 miles away (in a car with 5 kids, two weimaraners, and two cats howling their misery through the chaos). But other than that: I’m golden.
And then, after drinking my second cuppa Jo and surfing the almighty web, I write. Yessireebob, those magical hours between 4:20 a.m when my alarm goes off, and whenever my kids get up and demand me be their mother (boy that sounds bad!), I live fully inside of my mind–wherever that constitutes “me”. I could discourse all day long about this, but, i have beans and dogs on the stove (us poor arteests call it “indoor camping”), so I won’t.
My question is, when we, the writer, is writing: who are we?
And the closest I can get to an answer is that our cumulative we, is, no longer.
For me, writing feels like a continuation of my meditation on a whole other level. The moving of a body of energy far above the crown, out and into the ether; where all the writer has to do is be still and become the story-filter. Where every opposing aspect of our selves just fucks off: goes fishing; streaking naked in a mass body exodus, reeking havoc on shocked passers by; or, more often than not, blissfully back to sleep. And then, when we are breathing through the roof of our heads, we are left with something other:
the writer, alone.
One of my two favorite poets, Arthur Rimbaud wrote: I is an other. This is how I write. When I’m in that atmosphere–when I am the filter–I am as close to the divine as i think I could ever be. So for all those (you know who you are!) who think me bat-shit-crazy for waking at such an ungodly hour: these are the reasons why. Why I rise eagerly at 4 a.m; why I’m so often smiling; why I still find myself dutifully anchored to the roots of earth, like the photo I sculpted above. Not only do the words take me out of myself, but also, they ground my body-house . . . let it chill after a seriously long day of gravity.
So cheers, my fellow writers and word-chasing dreamers.
(Writer and reader alike: is there any place you’d rather be than awake in the glory of words?)