The Being is in the Doing

Your title plants a seed.

But it’s in the alchemy of discovery that unearths growing things.

I do not know what I am going to write until I write it.

And here comes the Flow … waving hello. Dismissing any lingering insecurities and insufficiencies.      

A connection with deep Self hooks-up, linking being-body with doing.

That wide-world inside my head. Its face hidden, until I put pen to paper.

A generative path rolls out before my footfall. I step along, as the Muse lights my way into uncharted creation.

As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.

Rumi

The big reveal in each moment.

Once that expressive tap has opened, there is no holding it back.

I could not tally the number of occasions I’ve leapt from the comfort of a warm bath to secure a word or a phrase. To clasp it, possess it, without breaking its wings.

Before it flutters away once again, back into the Mystery.

Mind you, conjuring a narrative in your imagination is all well and good. But until it births into a physical body, it holds no consequence.

When a brand-new chunk of reality cracks through its shell and opens its eyes into life – earthing new beingness from elemental doingness – it is thrilling!

And at that very moment, I meet my essential Self. Confronting head-on the primal stuff of which I am made.

We find out who we are by those works that we produce.

Steven Pressfield

No one can deny that these fresh-borns play wild and free. That they are unabashedly raw, untamed and innocent. Making their way into the world without any of the social graces.

Unfettered by a conditioned past or imagined future, in which memory or anticipation would only mute their magic.

Herein lies the transformational potency of creation.

Eyes long closed, now wide open.  Ready to offer their gifts to the wisdom of collective visioning.

As I am reborn in that creative fire, so too, are cells restructured and destinies shuffled.

Unfathomable Being, expressed in each tiny act of Doing. 

Do you think I know what I’m doing? That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself? As much as a pen knows what it’s writing, or the ball can guess where it’s going next.

Rumi

 Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest.

Elizabeth Gilbert