I woke up with the above title hovering like a deep velvet dark-but-luminous purple cloud at the edge of consciousness this morning. I don’t know what sparked it – the detritus of a forgotten dream perhaps – but after some thought, I know that I do use writing as a form of meditation.

I write every morning, during and after my breakfast. I write in the quiet of my bedroom. Sometimes I play baroque music softly while I work, sometimes not. The process frees my thoughts, opens and sometimes unlocks doors in the house of consciousness. Through the process I cleanse the mind, dust the furniture so to speak. Writing allows me to ascend the stairs to the attic, and descend to the basement in order to sort and clean the dark and cobwebbed corners there.

Now that I’ve bludgeoned the house metaphor to pieces, I would ask for reader’s comments. Can you site particular examples that serve to answer the following questions? Are there problems that writing has helped you to solve? Can writing have anything to do with altered states? Has writing served to carry you closer to your spiritual center?

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ZacSfuts@Comcast.net

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