On being at home in writing

What if the act of writing felt like being at home?

What if, rather than wielding writing as a means to an end, we could instead dwell within it, as practice?

With this attitude, this orientation, writing might become less about trying to engineer a certain result, and more about simply observing what draws our attention; about following the thread of our curiosity; about seeing where our words might take us.

We might start to let go of our preciousness about the content or the consequences of what we’re writing, and simply enjoy the process in and for itself.

And in reconciling ourselves to writing in this way — in letting go of our striving and straining and struggling — we might come to a kind of familiarity with the space of our writing.

And that space would be a space of respite, and solitude. And it would also be a space of discovery, and possibility.

What might happen if we were to cultivate that sort of space for ourselves? And for us to take that space seriously? For it to be a sacred space?

I ask these questions because I’m not there yet, myself.

But this is a start…