The mysterious rhythm of words

The mysterious rhythm of words--

how they arrive on the tip

of your pen one moment

and are gone the next

how they flow onto the page

on some days, spilling 

so fast you can barely

keep up

how they refuse

to emerge from your pen

on other days, suddenly shy

reluctant to show themselves,

unwilling to appear

how you have to learn

to wait, to be patient, and

how to coax them

from their hiding places

and how you have to learn this:

it's all part of the mysterious rhythm 

of words, part of the mystery 

of the writing process

a mixture of silence and sounds

melody and harmony

poetry and prose

each word containing a secret

each word a key to a puzzle

you need to solve,

each word a secret path

leading to a doorway

only you can open.

You need to sit listening to the silence

You need to sit listening to the silence, 

staring at the blank page, 

waiting for words to come, 

for letters to form beneath your pen.

You need to be patient, 

to stop rushing, 

to stop forcing the pen to write 

what it's not yet ready to write.

You need to sit in silence, 

listening to the silence, 

letting the silence wash over you.

You need to embrace the silence, 

welcome it, 

accept it, 

understand that all 

you're able to hear today

is silence, 

and that's ok

You need to know 

writing doesn't come 

with any guarantees.

You need to know 

words are shy, 

often fickle, 

afraid of committing themselves 

to paper.

You need to know 

it's not a sin 

to leave the page blank, 

to sit in silence, 

to listen to silence, 

to rise in silence ... 

without writing a word. 

On days like this 

you need to have faith 

the words will come 

and the ink will flow 

and your hand will move again

and you'll hear a voice in the silence --

just not today.

If you don’t follow the words when they come,

If you don’t follow the words when they come,

if you fail to pay attention or

if you think you can find them later or

if you make the mistake of ignoring them or

if you believe they’re unimportant or

if you hope you’ll be able to draw them out of thin air sometime later, 

maybe when you have the time, 

or maybe after dinner, 

or maybe just before you get into bed, or

if you put off writing just because you’re embarrassed 

to stand still in the middle of the sidewalk 

typing on your phone or jotting in your notebook 

as people pass you by 

afraid they’ll think you’re rude 

not to say hello or acknowledge those around you, 

if you don’t follow the words the moment they appear, 

listen, I’m telling you 

they’ll fade into the mist and disappear 

and it’s rare—if ever—that you’ll find them again, 

they’ll desert you in search of someone else prepared 

to hear their call, someone listening with an open heart 

the way you need to listen patiently for days or weeks or months, 

for however long it takes, for the sound you’ve been waiting 

and wanting to hear, and you—

you, the one who couldn’t spare a moment, 

who pretended not to hear anything—

if you don't follow the words when they come,

you’ll be left empty handed with nothing more than 

a faint dream of what might have been 

on the blank page in front of you .

Out of thin air

It's always hard to let go,

to put down your pen,

to take a break.

You don't want to lose

the connection you make

with yourself when you write.

So you debate with yourself--

stop or keep going?

Keep listening or not?

The thing is you never 

know what you'll find

if you keep waiting.

You never know if something 

will fly across the sky and 

you'll catch a glimpse

and suddenly the words

you need to write 

will appear

like magic

out of 

thin air.

But only if you

stay in your chair

and keep waiting

listening to the silence,

staring at the page

in anticipation of

whatever 

might come 

out of nowhere.

Listening for words

Listening for words

waiting for a voice

to whisper in my ear

hoping I'll recognize

it when I hear it--

if I hear it--

not knowing what

to expect

sitting in anticipation

of something

(but what?)

not knowing anything

more than the

blank page

and the pen in

my hand

poised over the page

waiting to hear

what I've never heard before

praying I'll be able to

catch the words

with my pen

and bring them

to the page

like pearls

drawn from

the depths

of the sea.

It's like dreaming

Each morning I listen to the silence

and hope to hear a voice and words

I've never heard before.

I listen with my ears

but, really, it's a different

kind of listening

that requires you to open

your heart, to hear

what you're afraid to say

or what you don't yet know

you need to say.

It's your voice and not your voice,

it's your hand holding the pen

and writing down the words

on the page and not your hand.

You hear something, a voice

beyond words. (Are there even 

words to describe it?)

It's like being bathed in light

or immersed in water

and you feel like you're floating

on the page as words 

emerge from your pen

and you see the letters

taking shape and the words

forming on the page

even before the words form

in your mind--as if

you are witnessing your thoughts

coming into being,

what you think and feel

unknown until you can

see the words floating 

in front of you.

It's like dreaming,

and when you open

your eyes the dream vanishes,

and you see instead

a page filled with the words 

you collected from a world

before it disappeared.

You hear a voice

You hear a voice inside your head,

Often, it's just a whisper, barely a sound at all.

But, still, you can hear a voice.

And you realize that you have a choice.

You can choose to listen to the voice and follow it wherever it leads you, or you can decide to ignore it and pretend you didn't hear a thing.

If you follow this voice, you may discover something about yourself that you fear or dislike. 

Or you might discover a new world waiting for you that you've never seen before, or you might see the world you know in a new way. 

You might meet people who you've never met before. 

Or you might meet people who you know and who are disguised as strangers.

If you ignore the voice, you risk losing your ability to hear such a voice in the future. 

So, when a voice speaks to you, whispering in your ear to catch your attention, you can choose to listen or not. 

You can follow the voice wherever it might lead you.

Or you can pretend you don't hear a thing and remain wherever you are ...  rooted in silence.

It's your choice.

It's that time of year

It's that time of year.

Close your eyes. 

Sleep.

Let yourself dream.

You need to trust the process 

of rebirth, of dormancy, 

of silence turning into words

when the words are ready 

to appear.

You need to stop writing

in order to keep writing,

to close your journal so

you can open it again,

to put down your pen

so you can pick it up 

after you've had a chance

to rest,

revived, 

restored.

You need to feel the rhythm 

of life without holding a pen 

in your hand, to meet life 

head on, bare-handed, 

without protection,

vulnerable.

You need to let each day 

sink into you, let the world 

turn, let yourself accept

whatever comes with gratitude 

for where you are, 

for who you are.

A week from now 

you can pick up 

your pen to express 

in words what you 

can't say 

without it.

For now let yourself 

embrace the silence.

Be still.

Listen to your heart.

Open your ears to the wind.

Let your heart open, too, 

so you can sail in

whatever direction

your spirit takes you 

in the new year.

It's quiet this morning

Poems are hiding lately--

playing hide-and-seek

over the past few weeks--

unwilling to answer

the door when I knock.

Are they sleeping

or just shy?

Too tired to play

or busy working 

on a secret project?

The page is lonely and

sad without words

running across it today, 

words chasing words 

playing tag and peek-a-boo

laughter and cries of glee

rising from the page.

It's quiet this morning

the page wrapped in silence

the words still asleep

hibernating 

waiting, perhaps, 

for spring 

Trust words will come

To find out what you're thinking

you sit and write for thirty minutes,

each word like a knock on the door

and you wonder what's hidden on the other

side and if you should answer.

You start out not knowing what you'll find,

which words will appear in what order,

yet you trust words will come out of 

the silence, out of some mysterious

source you've never understood.

Even after years of sitting every

morning, writing page after page,

this process is still a mystery-- 

how (and why) words appear 

the way they do, and what you'll find

on the page after you finish writing.

It's like waking from a dream--

not knowing where 

the dream came from... 

or where it went.

Savor the silence

Take a moment to breathe.
Just wait before touching
your pen to the page

and let the blankness
of the empty journal
wash over you

like the waves of the sea,
like the silence of an empty house,
like the pause between breaths.

Just listen for a moment to
how the white page, not yet
filled with words,

sounds like walking through
falling snow, and not a single
footprint marks a path

and the possibilities
of where you might go
are endless.

Take a moment to breathe,
to savor the silence of
the empty page.

Just wait before touching
your pen to the page,
and then begin...

Sitting and waiting

Over the years I’ve learned to sit and wait in silence for the words to come, and to sit in silence if they don’t come, and to wait in patience for whatever will come—words or silence.

It's taken more than four decades, maybe five, to learn this, to sit with a pen poised in my hand, a blank page waiting beneath it, mute, and wait for thoughts to appear or, if nothing appears and the page remains blank, to sit and wait in patience for words to come or silence, whichever the moment might bring.

I learned to accept it wasn’t in my power to force words to come or to disarm the silence as if it was an enemy waiting to ensnare me, but to let go of the idea that I had any power at all, to let the pen lead me wherever it needed  to go, even if it meant entering the thicket of silence.

Sitting and waiting was just sitting and waiting, not failure, not frustration, just another form of seeing that allowed me to view the world from a different perspective, a different angle, and if the words remained frozen or stuck behind an invisible dam, I learned not to worry if they never appeared and listened to my breath and observed the changing color of the light and let my thoughts wander without the distraction of the scratch-scratch sound of pen on paper.

I learned that writing wasn’t always writing but listening and watching, that my pen didn’t have to move across the page, didn’t even have to be in my hand, for me to write, for the words to come and to appear on the screen of my inner eye—which required a different kind of awareness, a different way of seeing (and listening for) words.

Sitting and waiting for the moment when a thought glimmers, just out of reach, and leaps like a silver fish out of the water, that’s the moment that writing begins, and you can feel the desire to describe that moment, to catch that fish and reel it in so you can see its fins and scales and jewel-like eyes (quickly clouding) and feel its mystery and the way it links you to life before life fades.

You sit and wait and hope to make that connection with your pen, and with the words that flow through it, but if the day brings no sightings, no tug on your line, and you sit and wait in silence, listening to your breath, the page blank before you, as empty when you get up as when you sat down hours ago, it’s okay because it was all part of the writing process, all part of the mystery.

On the Edge of Becoming

Sunday morning sunrise

and the world awakens again,

the silence broken only by

the sound of your pen

scratching the surface

of the page.

It's the same each morning.

You don’t know what

your voice sounds like

until you take the risk

of opening your mouth

and letting the words

tumble out, half-formed,

until you let your pen

begin moving across the page,

to see what will flow,

not knowing what

you have to say

until you read the words

that appear beneath

your pen as it moves

across the page.

What can you say

about something so mysterious

as voice? Some people

think you can find it

if you devote the time

to search for it as if

it’s outside you like

hidden treasure or

an unmapped island, and

all you have to do is keep searching

and like an explorer (before satellites

and GPS) you'll stumble

upon it, if you're lucky.

But what if it’s not something

that exists outside you or

that you have to search for,

but, instead, is part of your body,

just like an arm or leg

or like your eyes or ears,

and it’s just a question

of listening intently and

letting it speak and being able

to acknowledge its presence,

like your heart or soul, a part of

your body that you become aware 

of when you pay close attention 

to your pulse, the way you pay 

close attention to your hopes

and dreams?

You find your voice, I think, only

when you stop searching for it,

when you step off the boat and

put down your pack and sit

and wait for it to emerge

on the page in front of you.

Open your ears and listen

to the silence for in the silence 

is your voice, your words

waiting to be spoken,

your stories or poems balanced

on the edge of becoming,

waiting to emerge.

The Path of Silence

Following the writer's path of silence takes skill and patience.

It means writing without seeking praise for your work or hoping for success or wanting fame or longing for immortality.

It means swimming with earplugs so you no longer hear your ego shouting “Me, me, me....”

Once you learn how to swim past the shoals of these distractions, you can swim into silence rather than away from it.

Silence isn’t your enemy, your nemesis. It’s a gift that will let you hear the rhythm of your heart.

It’s what lets you swim at your own pace, without worrying about praise or criticism, in the direction that pleases you, rather than swimming to satisfy market demands or popular trends.

Following the path of silence will give you the chance to know yourself in a deeper way and to hear your own story as it emerges from the deep.

Each of us may get into the water for different reasons, but in the end we swim toward the same goal, hoping to discover whatever is at the heart of our existence, the mystery at the heart of our life and the lives of our characters.

If we’re skillful enough and patient enough, we can bring our discoveries back to the surface to share with others or simply enjoy on our own.

Don’t let yourself be misled by the sirens of trends, fame, popularity, immortality, or success.

Instead, follow the writer's path of silence to discover the treasures waiting for you... beneath the surface ... in the deepest recesses of your heart.

For more on the value of listening to silence, visit:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-1081198/Quiet-Author-Sara-Maitlands-search-silence.html
http://www.jungleredwriters.com/2009/07/on-silence-anne-leclaire-listens-below.html
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=125511963
http://www.newscientist.com/blogs/culturelab/2010/05/in-search-of-the-sound-of-silence.php