Any day now I will windex my writing table. Cleaning is a sure sign the writing is about to begin. A colleague-friend sends me the following message from The Universe, insisting he got the message intended for me:
Ray, no matter what else you might feel or think, it’s working, flawlessly, magically, and without exception. Your thoughts, beliefs, and expectations are the sole cause of the effects of your life. And while this may give you pause and have you wondering why you’ve not yet met with some of the successes you’ve sought, let it also empower you as you remember that the floodgates must fly open and the Kingdom must be revealed at the precise moment you release whatever else you might have felt or thought about it not working.
I read it hopefully, trying to imagine what it is I must release for the rest to fall into place that the writing may begin in earnest. I am out of energy and interest in finding spaces and places for the contents of boxes remaining from last week’s move. I am out of interest and apprehension about the doctor’s report after the kidney stone incident on Monday and the follow-up phone call yesterday. I am imagining that THIS TOO shall pass and become part of the purpose the Author & Finisher of my Faith intends. It is not hard work really. It is much, I imagine, like the water being jettisoned out of the low tiled wall and into the pool from the water feature at my elbow making all kinds of noise. The water does not choose when or where it is expelled, nor even where it lands. It merely flows. This reminds me of Hexagram 8 in the I Ching.
The supreme good is like water,
which nourishes all things without trying to.
It is content with the low places that people disdain.
Thus it is like the Tao.
In dwelling, live close to the ground.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and generous.
In governing, don’t try to control.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In family life, be completely present.
When you are content to be simply yourself
and don’t compare or compete,
everybody will respect you.
So while I am being tumbled from the spigot of life, I will celebrate reading, if not writing, with Alice Munro’s short stories. One can do worse than the company of an 82-year-old Nobel Prize winner.