Though every now and then, especially while sipping a freshly brewed cup of coffee while meditating (ie wrapping newly bought books or stringing stones into already designed accessories), I find myself caught in stitches. Or should I say scribbles. I am almost writing on the wall with graffiti.
I find myself inspired while engaged doing something almost mindless and repetitive.
Other people resort to mantras, or humming, or unconscious singing. Prayer for the devout.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re sitting down doing crochet or running on a treadmill: somehow these forms of activities all lead to a certain stillness. (Except, of course, if you’re the type who needs Madonna to get you between kilometers.)
You know, like for computers you can only erase or wipe data by replacing it with meaningless script?
If there were a color for it, it would always be white: all the colors of light present. Or white noise.
As pure and single-minded as the fabric of Veronica’s veil: white amid all the doubt and disbelief.
How else would imprints or messages stick?
Whatever your persuasion: from beyond, from on high, or from the past. Every perspective is a Babylon of interpretations.
All you need is to step back, forget, withhold. Then you’ll remember what it was that you wanted to write or sing about.