Listening

I am listening. With that message to whomever is listening to me, I wait for words to flow in some order so that when I am done listening—and by that I mean hearing, because listening is the precursor to hearing—thoughts begin to flow from a variety of places. Sometimes I can sense I am listening to the otherwise still small voice within. My inner self likes to stream the words without much conscious thought, though having written that, I am aware that a lot of what I write seems to originate from a different space than within. I listen to the thoughts of other spaces and times sifting toward me from the vastness. The first hearing focus is what I know, or what my spirit knows, and I am being reminded of things from a different time of which I have been or will be a part (the sense of where/when is fickle).The second hearing focus unites a tad more stillness of thought. It flows from the universe, a sector of that universe. A variety of dimensions, some of which I have visited and others new to me. But I digress. I am listening. I am hearing. I am writing. Words flow and often I am surprised, not shocked, by what my fingertips have roughly tapped into meaningful (I hope) ideas for me to savor or to share. I once spent a year taking dictation this way on a theme of daily meditations. Writing without a net and keeping balanced on a fine space within time. If I listen and hear, but don’t think, I get to enjoy my first reading of these with (autocorrected to “wordsmith,” an interesting choice) curiosity of what is now before me. Like opening a gift I wasn’t expecting and surprised that it is exactly what I need.

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