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Am I The Writer? Or Am I Being Written?

Waking I am soft, open, peaceful; a blank slate ready to receive the day’s writing.

Soon inner critic whispers in my ear, there was something I could have done better yesterday!

Breathing I begin to notice some tension in my body.

Playmaker begins to plan, mapping out defensive strategy on the slate. The path to achievement – proof I’m not a waste of space. C’mon lets go, we're running out of time!

A feeling of agitation and pressure has come into my body. A pot boiling on the stove, lid bouncing, water spitting around the rim – that’s me.

Worrier hears the sounds in the house around me. Responsibility weighs like a two-ton stone. How will I meet everyone’s needs? It’s all up to me.

The feeling of pressure builds. A fist is squeezing my heart.

Defense begins to quarrel with playmaker. How can I be expected to… ?!? Hey this is unfair. Where’s the ref? Foul on the field!

A feeling of irritation has come in. There’s not enough space to breathe – the slate is full. I’m like an out of control snowball rolling down hill gaining speed and size annihilating everything in its path. Time to get out of bed and pay attention to who holds the chalk!

Indecision slows me down. Uncertainty spins – fingernails scratching endless circles on the slate.

My brain whirls but my body rises, moving into morning Qi Gong practice.

On the slate, a picture of me, wearing a long dress that’s binding my shoulders and tangling around my legs. Long hair hangs over my eyes, I can hardly see.

Inner tension begins to slack off. I’m becoming more aware of the ground beneath me. There’s a bit more room to breath.

A dream remembered appears on the slate. Shining silver circle of stones glimmering beneath the full moon, thick red blood flowing into the center from above – divine feminine, the endless cycle of life and death.

Ah, sweet silence in my brain. I feel more solid and balanced over my feet. Who’s holding the chalk?

Another dream is remembered and drawn. It begins with nervousness, evasion, and compensation then loss of control – a fiery explosion. In the end I stand naked, a bleached white skeleton, bones revealed, briefly hiding them beneath my hair and dress only to reveal them again.

The fist holding my heart is loosening. My arms feel free to move. Maybe I can hold the chalk?

Inner guides appear on the slate. One standing as though he’d grown from the earth as a giant oak tree looks me in the eye – dignified and bold. Another, overflowing with love and ancient wisdom, opens her arms to enfold me in a warm embrace.

The hair is away from my eyes. Breath moves deeply and easily through my body.

Yet another inner guide slides, twirls, and claps across the slate. Sheer joy at being alive in this world incarnate in a body – the ponies run across the slate celebrating life.

No longer tangled; I feel my dress float gracefully about my legs, softly brushing my bones. Closing my practice, lifting my eyes to the window, I see abundance and beauty everywhere.

Holding the slate loosely, I walk down into this house, chalk in hand ready to accept the day’s writing.

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