The following is an excerpt from my daily journal dedicated to self reflection through stream of consciousness writing.
Things are so easy when you don’t worry about having the answers. When things naturally flow through you like the wind through a forest, answers carried in on these gusts. See how I can barely focus because a narrative of thought is being pulled through my woods. I take pleasure and gratitude in that. This feeling is a very important part of my process. It is progress. My daydreaming takes me away to a house, the woods exist in this house. Their branches are considerate, letting light pour in like hands cupping water. The trunks are tall and wide, when I try to wrap my arms around them I can barely reach. It’s like their size is meant for holding the sky in place. As I walk through them my steps are light as if part of my momentum is being pushed forward by the wind at my back. A brook runs through the woods, its steady flow reminds me of my ears as the crackling of water against rocks sends signals through my body to “Open up”. Brushing past trees with my hands the bark leaves an impression like a chart of how my blood flows in my veins. This chart is my map in and out of the woods until I reach a clearing.
As I stare into the center of the clearing a rock appears. No sign of how it showed up, it sits like its been there forever. I step up to the rock and climb on its back, mounting it and then twisting over onto my back parallel to the rock’s slope. Through the clearing the suns warmth becomes cleansing and I start to feel a layer of a layer of invisible material evaporate from my body. The suns warmth reaches deep into me, touching all edges of my body, I feel light, yet heavy. Like the fluffiness of a fried egg in a pan inside the drying walls of a clay house. Breathing becomes sonar reaching out and grabbing every blade of grass before weaving into the wall of trees like clasped fingers. When I breathe back in it’s with such strength that the trees almost bend in on me, I suck in all the words and gestures floating among them. They hit my mouth like the first warm sips of fresh coffee. With my inhale my eyes open, the air striking a bell in my lungs. I sit up on the rock and the motion hurls my body out of itself and around the world in orbit before crashing back into myself. Filling my in as if I were an outline waiting for a touch of color.
I breathe again this time only affecting the air immediately near my mouth and as I exhale I slip down from the rock, my feet meeting the grass. Despite wearing shoes I can feel the grass beneath my feet. Next to my feet sits something unfamiliar yet warm, its form looks like a rock but it is not connected to the one I was just sitting on. As I pick it up my heart beats in tune with a pulsing rhythm the rock teaches me. I grip it tight but feel no tension in my fingers, the rock feels like a soft pillow but does not succumb to my grip like one. I decide to take this rock with me and set on my way, as I leave the clearing I hear birds chirping in the distance. I don’t look to see if the rock I was laying on is gone, I know it is. As I walk the rock in my hand feels as if it were getting smaller and smaller, like each step I take was carving it down. On the edge of the woods I find my desk in a small clearing. By time I sit down the rock has become long and thin in my hand, following my impulse I pull out paper from my drawer and begin to write. On the paper I scribble a transcript of the winds story. I listen carefully.