Tag: writing

Rain

On the metal roof of the van in which I live, the dance begins. The solitary tap dance of a single drop gathers momentum as its companions are called forth to perform. In dis-gust, the wind blows those tiny dancers aside, to drip down the side of the van, as if to conclude the rain dance. But the misty cloud of falling water that followed and had been waiting in the limbs of trees, gathering the strength of the storm, becomes a grand orchestra whose beat thumps and jumps, pumps and dumps down in its thicker tones, baritone plops and bass-string pops. For a time, it plays a more harried, almost frantic, beat as it pounds down, selfishly obliterating all other sounds … before it’s silenced by the sun.

Whispers of rain came as

Tinkles of sprinkles
Dancing like galloping ants
Rustling green foliage

Musical stanzas
Orchestral liquid movement
Ghosting petrichor

Thunderheads roiling
Shadowy billows retreat
Memory puddles.

Why do I write?

I write to give form to a feeling – whether emotional, physical or perceptive – so that others might have the experience for themselves or that they might better understand what I experienced, if they feel the need. I write to give form to a visceral sensation that otherwise would disappear into the nothingness of life.

I write to capture old transmissions coming from afar, believing that everything in life already exists and that writers are simply receivers, picking up the threads of ancient stories to tell again. Having no barriers as they move through the ether, I write them down quickly before they’re gone without even an echo. I write to reconstitute the endless variations of existence revealed in those transmitted stories.

I write because I have thoughts that others don’t understand. I write to stay in touch with my reality and to avoid an argument about their reality.

I write with the hope that I will transport myself — or a future reader — to realms into which my imagination travels, to worlds and places that otherwise would simply not exist.

I write to capture dreams.

I write to argue against perceived injustices.

I write that I might filter myself before I speak, that I might not injure another with criticisms or harsh words. I write to express an anger that, at that moment, should never be expressed, and yet my soul clamors for the catharsis that comes with its expression. Once expressed, I’m content to leave those angry words to rest silently on paper or in the bowels of my computer.

I write to explore meanings I’ve given to past experiences so that I might go back through the time line of my life and revisit what beliefs I’d clung to at that time. I write to see the myriad of iterations I’ve lived on this earth, capturing those myths I lived by at that moment before I wrapped myself into different costumes life called me to wear. Like a photographer, I’m driven to capture that image, those moments in time to preserve them so that, as an armchair visitor, I can reenter that imprisoned moment.

I have old family photos that go back into the early 1800s, but there are no words or stories told of their aspirations, fears, trials and tribulations. Now, with the world becoming more digitalized where photos may never be passed down to future generations, it becomes even more important that I write to preserve what life was like back in “these old days.” I write for a grandchild or great-grandchild and those that follow that they might be better able to understand the epigenetic dysfunction that haunts them, so they might understand what they inherited, or simply that they know the stories of the bloodline from which he or she descended. As my memory fades with the years, I write for the seventh generation. But I also write for me, to capture those moments, minutes — now years — of memories that are moving so far out into the universe of time that they’re becoming foggy ghosts with little form.

I write because I can’t help myself.

How Practical is Imagination?

The word “practical” has several definitions which I “imagine” must be taken into consideration in answering this: likely to be effective in real circumstances or feasible; suitable for a particular purpose; realistic in approach, et cetera. Imagination is the faculty or action of forming ideas or images in the mind; or the ability of the mind to be creative or resourceful.

Keeping that in mind I absolutely know that at times my imagination is ridiculous, though I feel in those circumstances its purpose is to amuse me, or if I share it with others and if they listen, my hope is it triggers them to join in the crazy journey for the fun of it or to create something “out of this world,” maybe like Neil Gaiman does in his novels.

Imagination is an absolute necessity, and hence practical, in multiple practices, particularly in self-discovery, personal growth or mental health. For me, and others who engage in such practices, imagination is key to Gestalt therapy, shamanic journey work, and hypnosis. How many times have I descended that dark staircase, come to a door, and opened that door to discover what’s behind it — or what’s in my consciousness or unconscious.

My imagination has brought me misery in the form of worry — will my addicted children survive their addictions; why won’t my romantic partner answer his phone; will we survive the existential threat of climate change?  — but worry serves no useful purpose (though it can be an impetus to seek a solution), and I’ve learned to let worries hover in the background and get off the ride pretty quickly these days.

But imagination can have more practical value than just regurgitating concrete facts, which perpetuate a certain reality that is not serving anyone. John Lennon’s Imagine is the perfect example of instilling in every human’s mind that there really could be a world without countries, no religion, no war, no possessions, no greed, no hunger. With that seed planted, people might start actually contemplating that their clinging and regurgitating “my country, my religion, my whiteness, my possessions, my, my my” is in fact causing all the problems in the world and they might start contemplating a different world, and within that contemplation they see that the world really could BE AS ONE. Imagine living with less. Imagine sharing all we have, knowing there will always be more than enough for everyone if everyone shared. Without that seed planted, that shift in thinking, no changes will be made by me or anyone, so, yes, my imagination in that regard is very practical for the survival of humanity.

Imagination is absolutely necessary in order to read a novel, or even to listen to  classical music, but even modern music engages imagination. Though your imagination didn’t create these things, without an imagination you cannot take an author’s words and walk with them through the scenes and emotions depicted. Whether images are formed in listening to music or whether it’s simply emotions that have been stirred, the catalyst for either, I think, comes from imagination. The journey never starts without imagination. I know people who claim they just cannot read a novel, and they don’t. I know them well enough to see they dwell in a very concrete world, focused only on what they can see and touch, and they lack the ability necessary to be able to transport themselves into a world of imagination.

I believe imagination is the fuel to sexual excitement, with or without your lover, in just about every instance. So its practical purpose there is to ensure the continuation of the human race.

But of course, imagination is the key to the creative process. Imagination is the creative process. It is, for me, an idea or thought that frees itself from the conditioning that attaches itself to the thoughts that chatter in circles through my mind, plowing the same old, now infertile, ground. Imagination is creation in both its initial thought and in what it produces. It is both the seed and the chicken as it’s both a process and its end product. It’s the seed that brings a novel or film alive and takes us all on the journey in the non-concrete world, like Leo DiCaprio’s movie Inception.

It’s the inquisitive, imaginative mind that questioned beliefs: is the earth flat; does the sun revolve around the earth; will taking a bath cause disease; how do ants form such straight lines; how do bees find flowers or make honey; or what was the reason life split between plants and animals; or can mankind fly light years away to another galaxy? It’s the imaginative mind that thought up safety pins, paper clips, hairbrushes, paper, printing presses, photovoltaic cells, and, yes, nuclear bombs. It’s the imaginative mind that finds solutions to problems; it can conceive of a better way of doing things, leading scientists to new theories or discoveries that can serve (or destroy) mankind as those ideas are brought into the concrete world.

I don’t expect everyone or even a few to follow my fanciful flights of imagination, i.e., I am a Spoon, but I find imagination practical in regards to my life. Without an imagination I would not have benefited from my shamanic practice, hypnosis, therapy, or any other paths I’ve walked in search of undoing old myths that protected me when young but hindered me as I grew older. Without an imagination my creative writing would be nonexistent, nor would I have benefited from the fanciful thoughts of so many writers. Without an imagination, I would not have dared step off the ledge into the full slipstream of life, sailed the ocean, had adventures.  Without an imagination, I honestly don’t believe I would have found the peace and happiness I have in my life today because I would have believed the unhappy world in which I was born and raised was the only reality permitted; without my imagination, I would not have striven to let go, to surrender old, unskillful thoughts and imagine a more perfect world.

Just imagine.