| by Flemming Funch|
I haven't written much lately. I mean, not just here. I haven't written.
I spend most of the day typing letters and numbers on a keyboard, but that doesn't do it. It is not that I'd want to have the job of being a writer either.
The type of writing that works for me is what I can't easily plan for, and which nobody else can ask me for, other than maybe by posing an open-ended question. It is something that just appears, unfinished, that needs to be said, in order to be finished. It's a type of mindfulness, where the act of doing it is more important than the destination.
But there's a bit of inertia there. Takes a bit of effort getting into it. Afterwards it is an effortless flow. But it is easy to forget.
Let me not be as lofty as to pretend that what I write is a brilliant gift to the world. I'm really talking about my own inner feeling. There is a certain space that I enjoy, where I seem to have something to say, which seems to be worth saying, and I don't visit that space often enough. I get shocked and ashamed when I remember, and I notice that I've just spent months doing nothing much, and not paying attention. As to the moments where I did pay attention, I've forgotten them, because I didn't write about them, or from them.
There are such moments every day. A spark of awareness. Something needs to be examined, discussed, experienced, written about. But if I ignore it, it is quickly gone, and the window closes again. Like a dream. If you don't write it down right now, it will quickly be forgotten.