A Writing Practice is a Wonderful Thing

A blog and missive guest-written by Bryonie Wise

For a moment, the words I thought I was carrying so carefully in the palm of my hand (like the delicate blue of a robin's egg) threatened to topple over and spill to pieces—luckily, well worn maps of previous adventures similar to this one exist and so I traced myself back through the lines and markings of writings past.

A writing practice is a wonderful thing.

What I understand this hesitation to write as is a fear of disappointing greatly—a rare form of performance anxiety, if you will, and without a written history of my evolution as a human being to refer to, I don't know how else I would learn so much about who I am becoming and where the fault lines still rumble with fair warning.

Any kind of practice has the potential and power to work this kind of magic: to leave a trail of evidence of past lives.

Of ancient loves and losses.

Of heart break and heart make.

Any kind of practice—served up in a true way—offers us the opportunity to wake up.

To activate atrophied imagination muscles.

To demonstrate new insight into old ways.

Perspective. Discernment. Equanimity.

Any kind of practice we commit to on some level—whether created in conscious knowing or subconscious intuition—means we are asking to grow.

What comes with the desire to expand (or open or change, even) is the oppression of doubt; shadows dropping the heavy into bright corners.

Familiarity tends to tremble in the face of any wild unknown and some parts of us do what they can to sabotage our deep desire to bloom.

Any practice worth its weight in gold not only offers us valuable insight into the curious nature of our being but it also gifts us the necessity of trusting ourselves.

It doesn't mean we'll always be right; it does mean we'll be working towards the impeccability of our own alignment.

I'm turning this over to you now—

The following questions do their best to braid together the several thoughts put forth in this missive. They are meant to flood your senses—and to offer you an opportunity to take inventory of what beholds you.

What am I so afraid to discover within myself? When I am feeling most nourished in my life and by whom and by what? What part of my being is leaking energy? Where do boundaries need to be reset? What story of my life am I attached to and how many ways do I try to prove it's worth? In what ways do I try to hide the evidence of my vulnerability? What might balance feel like in my body, mind and heart? How do I create separation within myself? What is the face of my fear, the source of my anger, the place of my greatest resistance? What parts of my life have I been hesitant to confront? What do I practice regularly and how do I know if it's working for or against me? In what other ways do I track my own growth?

How this works is up to you: choose a question and write for the entire time.

Or, break your write time down into several blocks of minutes, and pick a few questions to fill your pages with.

Or, toss out these questions and create your own.

Your words do not have to adhere to any particular form, shape or style.

If you find yourself stuck, put your pen down (or remove your hands from the keyboard) and move your body—return to the knowledge of your breath and the last moment you remember breathing it.

Pick up your pen and keep writing until you stop.

When writing practice is complete, put everything away without reading a word.

PS: This kind of writing comes from feeling (heart) and less from thinking (mind); so don't think so much as ... WRITE.