The writer’s job is to become human through the stories he / she / they tell. It is a task not meant to transcend one’s position or thought process; it is to act as a transmitter. I embody the divine through my humanness as I transmit stories, like a radio, and frequency signals. Whoever I choose to meet, or place I travel to, I induce compassion rather than trying to control the outcome of the situation I find myself in.
Yet because of, or despite our humanity, duality exists. But why does it exist and plague the spirit? I think it has something to do with the scientific principle of friction, not in the religious or fundamental sense, but in the space between and beyond what hurts and what heals. We need the duality to see the sides of our nature-light and dark — to choose what to banish and what to keep, what to hold steady on by using our innate will of compassion. When we attempt or succeed in manipulating the outcome of any situation using the power of control or force (subtle or overt), then the shadow side of duality inevitably rears its ugly head to cause a negative version of friction.
I see that my frailty is a human gift and reminder that it IS the miracle. The divine source doesn’t work through perfection (a gross illusion that thwarts creativity and expression) — it breathes through heartbreak, compassion, and creativity. Writers need to protect their frailty without defensiveness or stubborn insistence over their ideas and emotions. For us, it is akin to the poet’s paradox: our suffering refines our soul until we radiate empathy as art. Until we are able to move beyond the emotions that engender our work we will be forever stuck in their cycle of hurt without healing.
It takes inner power, which is tender strength, a divine alchemical balance between our masculine and feminine natures to become the vessel of the gift itself. This is the power of an unbreakable current, one that holds the sword and the chalice, discipline and surrender.
It is the power of presence that allows writers to write. Because language is a revelation. It is an act of courage and mercy at once. I have learned this through writing memoir-being strong enough to hold the wound, gentle enough to allow it to flow through me, and then focused enough to translate it to the page.
When you listen deeply enough, language reveals the hidden pulse beneath the world’s noise. Which brings me to the point. Even though I am a writer, words are not the gift. I am!
The writing is merely how the universe or my innate karmic talent showed up in this life through me to shape stories, to become an instrument of truth.
