I had a conversation with one of my girlfriends today. A couple of months ago she went to New York and L.A. to take a step back, to get out of Chicago, and see herself from a completely new perspective. She gained some clarity, some insight, just through distance and through the loss of routine.
Clarity, come to me.
I read a book about this guy who couldn't find his voice. Nothing he had etched out onto paper seemed good enough for his fingers. He sat at his desk and stared at the blank sheet, pen in hand, and frozen for two solid hours each day. He decided to remove himself from his environment. He went back home, staked out a spot in his parent's old farmhouse and wrote until his calloused fingers could no longer hold the weight of his pen. Consciousness seemed sudden, seemed to come from the space hidden between destinations.
Consciousness, be eminent.
A friend told me about an acquaintance, a budding young artist, who couldn't see past his own limitations. The world too chaotic, the environment not softened enough for his talent. One night he made a run for it, he slipped out and held himself up in a convent for over two months. He nestled himself amongst the white and black habits, in confinement, a solitary room with only a bed and simple linens. The silence, the stillness, the grace, the contemplation, embodied and enfolded him to the point of release. Brilliance flooded out in steady worded increments.
Contemplation, be my guide.
And where do I find my own destination? Does it lie in the rogue deserts of the south, the grittiness of a bruised city, or a sullen hilltop overlooking green waters, or is it still here, right here, right in this moment? Maybe it isn't the place, but maybe it is the space. It's not the distance measured in land, but the distance between reality and truth, what is and what isn't.
Maybe it's the moment of clarity, when consciousness and contemplation unite.
Post a Comment