Our words and the writing are structured so that we can understand each other and speak into the same space. Yet, as with the rest of the world, the intuitive and rational have been separated as if they are prohibited from holding hands on the same page of song and community. We allow for poetry yet even that has been co-opted at times into a rigid structure of so-called perfection. The linear left-brain control that is so masculine. Why?
See the play of circles and spirals, the song of liberation that comes through the easy art of writing into the Divine Feminine. We call this unprofessional or incorrect. Who says? Are we so caught up in our rules and restrictions that we cannot read beyond the structure into a limitless perception that includes the weightless flight of words that resonate into Soul expression? When we write and read, where is the essence of Gaia to come through if we cast Her into the shackles of rational control of the word? Why suppress the shivers of ecstasy and keep them from resonating, expanding? What do we read and perceive in the words at play when we release our expectations and desire for control? Where is the freedom of poetry within everyday experiences that merge the faces of form and spirit? Where is the acceptability of soul within prose?
So what if the expression is not real! What’s real? It is what we make it! All these rigid structures cannot be the end all or the totality. What if we were reading a translation of another language, where we retain the essence that leaves its scent upon the portals that open our hearts and minds, so we allow the aroma of the letters to waft under nose and skin, and settle into a bloodstream rushing easily from here to there.
This is where I come from -- the structure and rigidity -- and there is where I am going -- into the open expanse of space where poetry and prose meet without separation. Who is to say that one is different or more important? Who is to say that our Souls cannot absorb and assimilate the pink lotus from the tall pine tree or the weeping reflections that fall from my eyes? We speak in a written language that can be infused with Infinite Spirit if we don’t squeeze the very life out of the freedom of expression. Where do we come into our own center of voice if we allow the external strictures to choke the Soul?
Not all writing is meant to be read solely by mind as a manual that calls to the bastards and tosses them into the river before they’ve even lived. Not all writing is meant to be judged but rather it is to be felt in the heart and allowed to pulse in ecstasy throughout the subtle energy fields of one base existence to reconnect heart and mind.
Maybe we ask ourselves ... what am I writing for and into? Why do we write? Is this piece meant to follow the gr’up footsteps of academic precision and vital learning or is it meant to bloom in the simple childish innocence of the wildflowers along the barren highway of long forgotten trails where pilgrims once traveled before the highway paved over free spirit?