Writing With Soul

Writing With Soul course has been such a beautiful success ... We've been exploring the stages of consciousness, creativity and the writing process gently during the past 4 weeks. It's also been wonderful to read everyone's writing on the Online Moodle. Isn't great when you create an online community that's filled with positive support, friendship and respect? Ah, only two weeks to go ... and we look forward to delving into the higher levels of spiritual awareness and creativity.

Here's a sample of one of our course participant's writing - written in 15 minutes ... but it absolutely highlights the beautiful creative connection we achieve in a 'state of flow':

The most powerful moment

Sheets of rain fell from above. A cliff, half eaten by waves forms a holed screen for the bay from the ocean. Wind, howling, as befitted the night, echoed across the headland, the eerie screams calling forth the dead from their graves. The overcast sky, purple with anger, seemed as if it were purposely pouring this rain as a punishment, it was so harsh. The thunder, booming, rolling around the echoes in the bay causing the earth to shake. Indeed, it was a scary night.

Behind the cliff, in the bay, was a small tent. Doors flapping wildly in the wind, the canvas soaked through and through wetting all inside, promising mold. Outside, a single lamp blazed behind it’s screen of murky class, illuminating a hunched figure wrapped in several layers to anyone close enough to see through the sheer thickness of the rain. The figure, if you could see him, would have been gazing into a small object in his had, so small, so infetismal, not even he could fully see it throught the rain the length of his bent arms. The object, pulled from it’s rightful place, was now in the open. Pulled from it’s ancient home, pulled from it’s ancient ties, now in the world of men. The world cried, the world trembled.

The man, gazing into his hands could feel a sense of mysteriousness, powerfulness, eminating from the thing. A small jade carving of an eye. A small eye, not accuractely belying the power it possessed. The single last treasure of the inca’s, the eye of the gods. “he who holds this eye shall see all”.

The man knew, all he had to do would be to put this eye close to his eye and it would sink into his flesh, become part of him. He would see like a god, he would be a god. Previous men, weaker than he, had not been able to stand it. Ariasis the pained, after years of wearing the eye, finally tried to pull it out. He pulled, clawed, screamed in pain as his hands tore through his face, ripping out the eye, the eye that wouldn’t come out, no matter how hard he pulled. Ariasis had killed himself trying, only for the eye to promptly roll out after he finally finished screaming, dead on the floor.

Armun, the terrorless had lasted less. Three days after wearing it, he caught site of his wife, and knew she would kill him. In his rage, he ordered her killed first, and kill her he did. Only after did he realise life was no longer worth living, and he, too, killed himself.

The eye had a history of death.

The figure, hands trembling, raised it to his eye, not quite touching but almost.

Thanks Jonathan for the beautiful writing ...