The irony I’m experiencing right now, contemplating where to start with this first post, is that somewhere within me I have a belief that this first post is meant to convey the “everythingness” of what this publication is about. Also, the “everythingness” of what I, the author, am about.
Except, in its essence, it’s about nothingness. Sunyata. Emptiness.
I spent my whole first part of my life striving to define the everythingness of me and my life. And the rest of it, so far, trying to untangle myself from the grips of all that I constructed.
These words are many lifetimes in the making.
How do I take you on a journey from there to here, if I do not start there.
Somehow, though, it feels more playful to simply meet you in the freshness of here.
I guess there will unveil itself over time, as it needs to rear its head for context.
I’m done perpetuating “who I am”, “what I am have achieved”, “why I am worthy and powerful” and “why you should listen to me”.
My heart aches for that little girl who longed for people to listen to her, because she thought she, and what she had to say, was so important. So urgent. So necessary. She was desperate to be seen, she couldn’t even see herself.
But, as I’ve come to learn, writing, like art, like singing, is about the process. Not the outcome. I don’t always hit the notes, and it doesn’t matter.
I’m showing up, simply by writing.
You’re showing up, simply be reading.
We are both doing the work. We are both engaged in the deep play. In life.
Let’s agree - how about, if you’re here, with me in the here-ness, you’ll just know.
The compilation of these musings will in time form the foundations for a book, or books. I honour you for being here at the conception, imprinting yourself as an ancestor to the life that will incarnate of it one day.
Some of these words are gifts, simply released into the Universe, through the Free Subscription.
Some of these words have an amped up energetic exchange, through the Paid Subscription. These words won’t come with simplicity, fettered for your easeful digestion. They will be cathartic truths and deep play. Sometimes many pages at length. Like a chapter or pages in their book. They will poured into. Like a sweet and fresh nectar, exclusively for you to drink. They will push me, as much as they will push you. And above all, they are an investment into Art, for arts sake.
Thank you for honouring me, with whatever bounty you seek to receive from my rich and full garden.
We are about to embark on a journey, and I make no apologies for stripping naked and dancing wildly in the discomfort of these stories.
Stories of less.
Stories of deconstructing, decluttering, reclaiming, initiating… becoming.
Stories of freedom.
Stories of Śūnyatā.
The stories that remind us of The Great Remembering. The truth we already know about ourselves and our life and our purpose and our potential… but got so cluttered, distracted, distorted we simply forgot.
The stories that bring us home, to ourselves. And beyond, transcending ourselves.
End. Next. Begin.