One of my sons lies in bed, thinking. He reads there a lot too. But sometimes, when I go in to tell him goodnight, he’s just lying there, eyes open, no book in hand. Like last night:
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know yet. I need to think about that too.”
It’s often about video games. And sometimes it’s philosophical or theoretical amazingness. Like, the physics that could make it possible to move through a room by descending through the floor and then return by passing down through the ceiling.
I went back to him this morning and asked what he ended up thinking about last night.
“As in, you were not thinking about anything or you were thinking about ‘nothing’?”
“I was thinking about nothing. Most of the time when people think, they think about something. I was thinking about nothing.”
Damn! Tapping into some Buddha vibes. He’s 12.
He doesn’t know how much I dig that, and how much I relate, in my own way.
When I was in the shower yesterday, a poetic flow came into my mind. Being in the shower, I couldn’t write it down. I tried to hold onto it, but no go. It faded as I somewhat rushed to dry, dress and get to pen and paper.
Instead, I was left with a flow about the flow that eluded my grasp. These poetic notings, for the #showyourwork file:
Writing verse in my head while standing in the shower, once more the clarity of life slipping down the drain, beginning a journey down of patchwork terrain carved billions of years ago, or millions anyway, its voyage down the watershed, pouring out of a poet’s mouth that is not my own, an expulsion into the seas where the life that knows not where it came from will carry the sacred mysteries once at the tip of my tongue, if not my pen, among the currents and, perhaps, discover better what to do with them than I anyway. Such is the fleeting nature from where it came.
Read more from #showyourwork, including a post on where that creative ethic comes from and why it’s worth sharing works-in-progress and creative behind-the-scenes processes.
Photo by Alessandro Bianchi