It begins. I will dedicate ten minutes every day to writing. It doesn’t matter what I write. It doesn’t matter how I write it. This is, in a sense, an online journal. A place to put whatever is on my mind. A place to record dreams. A place to put my feelings. A place to put the questions that may not have answers.
There is a squirrel sitting at my feet. He is looking up at me as though to ask a question. I suspect the question is about peanuts. But the appearance of a four-legged just now as I begin this, a wild creature only 2 feet from my space who is totally comfortable with my presence here, is a sign of sorts. A sign that I belong here. That this is my place. That I am doing what is natural for me.
I don’t know why it is hard for me to begin writing, to dedicate myself to it. I know that when I get in the “writers zone” it is something that I really enjoy doing. Sometimes my fingers can’t type fast enough to capture all my thoughts. And many times during my non-writing hours I think of things I might like to “put down” somewhere for further contemplation or just for posterity. What a funny thing to say – posterity. What IS posterity? Who is it? Why would we do anything for it? But it has such an important sound to it.
Maybe I am thinking that what I write is for future me. Is that posterity? Or for my children – because of course there is nothing they want more than to read their mother’s ramblings. Or is there, perhaps, some inner knowledge that tells us that by recording something, by focusing on it, by giving it a form in addition to thought we somehow make it more manifest? That we somehow make more of a contribution of this “thing” to the greater experience of the unmanifested. If we are here doing what we are doing to gather, to experience, to create, to manifest so that all that is can experience all that is perhaps that is what we really mean when we choose to do or say or write something for posterity.
Reflections on Life
