I am deep in the writing process working steadily towards a deadline at the end of January. Last week I printed out a lot of my work and am steadily combing through each chapter and editing, which pretty much involves me asking myself about 50 times a day, “What am I really trying to say?”
I want to do anything but this work. Search for a Truth is so difficult – like tracking an elusive animal. You know this “Truth animal” when you see it, but the rest of the time is spent desperately seeking signs it’s still living here.
I find myself guessing, “Is this footprint Truth? What about these broken limbs, was it Truth that crashed through here?” Sometimes I feel like most of a Chapter I write just describes all the signs, the wake of Truth as it tramples through the world I live in.
I’m trying to keep going. To somehow push through what feels like dense fog that has covered this area I’m exploring. I can perceive very little with my senses. All I hear is the dense silence that comes when every creature is too cautious to move.
Carefully I’m moving through this fog now, only because I have to. Maybe I’ll move right off the edge of a cliff? Crap! I don’t know which way to go. How do I follow a Truth when I’m unable to chart its tracks?
I pause in my journaling feeling my heart starting to race and my mind spinning out into panic. I pause and go get another cup of coffee. I go outside, stand for a few minutes in the sun, and when feeling calmer I sit back down; pick up my pen and write,
“Truth exists in many forms. My inner sense of knowing leads me to recognize its shape, texture and smell. I carry that wisdom with me. I dare to search. I have carved out space in my life to listen.
Truth. Not THE truth but A truth lives here. Inside this dense forest, foliage and trees, there are so many places to hide, even without the aid of fog.
This dense fog fills my lungs and I have a hard time breathing, making me move even slower. But… fog is not smoke. Fog carries moisture to the surface of leaves and allows a slow drenching of nourishment for the plants. There is a purpose, even if I don’t think the purpose serves me. Moving slower now, my body has to be fully present to know where I am.
I cannot control the fog, the trees, the wind or the water droplets. I can just be here – me – in this fog moving achingly slow.
Slow and deliberate, but listening.
Slow and deliberately breathing.
Slow and deliberately watching.
Here in this place I am searching for something I already know.