From where does it come from?
Not from my logical, rational side of my brain, that’s for sure.
Rather, an unknown and unfamiliar realm. A bottomless ocean within, seemingly filled with metaphor, symbolism, imagery and a fluidity that my waking ego mind can only dream of having. So poor is that part of my brain when it comes to writing with elegance and fluidity that it can only look on in wonder when the other side takes over and ask: “From where DID that come???”
No. It appears to come from elsewhere. A part of consciousness which doesn’t even know it’s conscious until… until that is, I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, then suddenly out of the watery, murky depths; there is it. A plethora of words, imagery, feelings and evocative language that is as if from the poet’s hand direct.
THAT is the writing I love to do. That and not the logical, manipulative cold hands which write in order to meet others’ needs.
No. It has to come straight from my Soul to feel satisfying to me and to touch the Soul of others first, before their mind begins to try and fathom out the meaning of what they are trying to ingest. Soul touching soul. Yes, just like the poets. Or art or music. It goes in, deeply in, and your mind lags way behind, trying desperately to catch-up and find the reason, meaning, logic, blah, blah, blah.
None of that is why you read it in the first place, or why I wrote it, or more accurately, why it wrote me. For it is very much as if my hands take flight. I don’t think, I don’t plan, I have no end-point in sight. Instead. my fingers lightly graze each key, taking on a life of their own yet clearly connected to this unknown part of my consciousness. And, before I know it, I’ve conjured up images, metaphors and wisdom I had no idea where even there. But there they were. Buried deeply within, just waiting for the door to open, even just a little way, just enough to let them take flight. To find their wings and fly out of the dark and into the clear light of day, onto this piece of paper, that note book or this computer screen.
I rarely edit, I rarely even re-read for the most part, I just trust that whatever was waiting so patiently, and sometimes, oh my goodness, how patiently it waits, until I once again find the key to the door. Something shifts inside and there it is. The flow. The energy. The necessity to sit and just write. No further analysis is required. It just is. And I am SO grateful that it is there. It is often my salvation. My lifeline back up and out into the world once more. Back into relatedness with the world. I’m grateful, truly grateful for this ability to let my pen go and I am always surprised where it ends up taking me.
Angela Dunning 1st January 2019