Writing from the Inside Out (16 page)

The builder wasn't entirely sure that it was correct for him to give of himself endlessly for this single pursuit, so he looked to Brahma, the impersonal and universal creator. Brahma took form and stepped in, showing Indra what the infinite-of-infinites truly meant — and freed Indra from the need to prove his position.

 

 

When experiencing a story, we enter a kind of trance or immersion, an altered state of consciousness. In many cases, we forget that we are physically reading words, actually hearing language spoken, and we sense, transparently at times, that we are within the story's landscape as created by the language, as invoked by the speaker.

Consider the following questions:

What is known about the landscape in your imaginative creation?

What is still unknown?

What does the reader sense about your landscape, and how is it different from the waking world?

 

 

I seem to forget that what I make with words depends on my being a bodied creature. But when witnessing a powerful story, my body reacts. When I am performing basic sums, I notice very little physiological response. Establishing more cognitive wiggle room with regard to how I interpret and perceive is useful. It's not about performing static stretches. It's about the interaction between my mind and body as two forms of the same thing. Getting mind and body to move as one is very powerful. I re-emerge into a higher natural state.

Ideally, my internal witness must be as strong as the sensory phenomena I experience. The only way to actually achieve that equivalence is to challenge the witness to stretch his ability, such as in a writing marathon. I hold a train of thought not from sheer willpower or narrowness of focus, but as part of being open to all experience without kudos-ing myself or rejecting the balloon of sensation. It gets harder, and the train of thought should only be held for as long as the witness is present. When I let go, I open myself even more to receive another refreshing flow of sensation.

Emotions and stories are stored in the senses. When encountering them, I need to bring the conscious mind into play as a witness so that I can stretch through them, freeing the sensations, recognizing imagistic elements working beyond stories.

It's natural to experience freedom of mind and body. Yet, there are disturbances in the field of perception, both cognitive and sensory. I witness conflicting beliefs. I experience physical discomfort in life. So I shut down, perhaps to be protected against future trauma or an understanding that would conflict with a past belief. This closure creates a different kind of suffering unless I work to free myself by bringing the witness back into and beyond these tight places where energy is spent and held.

I have to guess at the shape of my latent energy until I come to know more about it through the resonances I feel as I interact and relate with the world. The central ability is to use my conscious awareness to become aware of the unknown movers. There may always be stones left unturned in my psyche, simply because it is rather difficult to go to the prelinguistic body, the sense elements, and to know what's what.

This is a spiritual pursuit because of the nature of directing attention upward and into the mysterious, remaining uncertain. The goal is to become a better, more ethical, healthy, fulfilled person, with the kind of happiness that does not require anyone or anything —including my own self-concepts.

Fulfillment is not an eventual goal. It happens whenever I apply myself wholeheartedly to what I believe in — beyond my fears, releasing my hold on anything familiar or comforting. In the experience of true freedom, perfect responsibility emerges, where all that is moving is my natural self. I am being lived and moved by my deepest truth. And experience will remind me that it will have the final say. This is yoga practice.

It is said that everyone who sincerely practices yoga will eventually have to ask the same questions that Arjuna asked Krishna in the
Bhagavad Gita
. The
Bhagavad Gita
uses the metaphor of a battle to teach the internal path that became Tantra Hatha yoga. The scene of the
Bhagavad Gita
is a battle, but this story is not about an actual battle. You would never be able to convince someone to fight in a war advocating complete nonattachment. The lessons in the text lay the groundwork for practice in which the body is the field.

Things arise in the practice of writing that challenge my conception of my place in the world. I naturally want to live in a way that supports and strengthens the quality of my inner life. It can be perplexing to understand the world, but that's not my primary task. At least while I am writing, I set aside all worldly issues and go completely inside. I affirm that my intentions are good. The truth of my experience will naturally spill over into the world. I do not need to steer the result — all I need to do is steer myself so that I give all my energy to the practice.

Becoming familiar with the concept that there is a source for truth, I lean my attention toward the source rather than the truth — as something beyond the truth. Can I express the same truth in another way? Another way? And another? What changes when I rephrase the truth, and what remains the same?

As I stretch myself to write, I hold onto my sense of truth, but I don't hold so that a fuller expression can't make itself known. When I've found a more real expression of truth, I regard it highly, but I let it go where it pleases.

 

 

When something is puzzling or concerning, I'll sit down and obsess over it, expecting an answer. The puzzle tends to just run in circles, because as much as it is a real concern, it is also an energy phenomenon within me. My energy has everything to do with how I relate to the thing.
The Hobbit
has a scene in which Bilbo is lost in a forest, and he climbs a tree to see if he can find the edge of the forest from that perspective. He can't — but the reason he can't see the border of the forest is that he's in a valley.