‘Why are you unhappy? Because 99.9 percent of everything you think, and of everything you do, is for yourself - and there isn’t one.’
Mystic and philosopher: Wei Wu Wei
Spiritual teachings dampened my passion for creative writing leaving me feeling disillusioned. I stopped writing creatively for quite some time. Here is what happened and how I discovered a new perspective and regained enthusiasm for both spiritual practices and writing.
Back in 2011, I became obsessed with storytelling, wrote a storytelling blog, trained to be a verbal storytelling performer and by 2013 published a book called The Tao of Storytelling - 30 Ways to Create Empowering Stories to Live By.
In 2015, I was in California at Santa Cruz University, amongst giant redwoods and racoons, training on an NLP (neurolinguistic programming) train-the-trainer course with Robert Dilts and Judith de Lozier, two people who are genius at their craft. NLP is a skill we can use to reframe our perspectives and change how we experience our reality.
Around the same time, having been a long-time meditator (both transcendental and mindfulness) I had become preoccupied by the explosion of programmes on the Buddhist concept of non-duality.
The essence of non-duality or oneness (in a nutshell, for now) is that there is no objective self or ‘doer’ inside our minds, directing our thoughts and our actions. In Buddhist doctrine, anatta regards the notion of ‘self’ as a series of delusional, impermanent creations of the ego which arise in the mind and fall away. Our attitudes and actions are the result of complex interactions between our neurology, our environment, our childhood programming, our culture, our learning and our experiences. Of course, the notion that there is no self does not absolve us of accountability for our actions.
Some of the teachers I followed most fervently then (and still respect) include: Sydney Banks (3 Principles), Rupert Spira, Adyashanti and Jeff Foster (whose teaching now embraces a broader perspective).
Returning from California, I became immersed in these profound teachings which essentially affirmed that there was no ‘me’. At least no ‘me’ in the sense that I had previously perceived myself to be - a perspective I found freeing, yet dispiriting and ungrounding at the same time.
Irish mystic and philosopher Wei Wu Wei summed it up beautifully: ‘Why are you unhappy? Because 99.9 percent of everything you think, and of everything you do, is for yourself - and there isn’t one.’
Why would I write stories about the experiences of someone who doesn’t exist? Unless, I’m writing fiction, of course.
Even the NLP concept of reframing our stories, which I advocated in The Tao of Storytelling felt pointless. All we’re doing is telling ourselves another version of a story about some past experience that has already dissipated like gossamer in morning sunshine. Indeed, chances are that we’re cherry-picking the emotionally resonant aspects of the experience and biasing our story. We’re rebreathing life into moments that have already vanished. That said, despite loving her work, I had long grappled with Byron Katie’s profound question: ‘Who would you be without your story?’ Something resonated and jarred in equal measure whenever I heard people use the phrase ‘it’s just a story.’
Grappling with these conflicting perspectives while on a retreat in Glastonbury in 2016, I felt despondent about writing and longed for the retreat space to bring a fresh perspective. It didn't. Instead I spent most of the weekend photographing Glastonbury Abbey, the retreat house, the grounds and the Tor, convinced that as a spiritual being, with thoughts simply arising and falling away, there was no point whatsoever in writing them down and sharing them with others. So, I wrote little during the retreat but left with a collection of photographs which I shared on Instagram as a form of self-expression.
After the retreat, I continued my immersion in non-dual self-negation. Although I continued with Morning Pages and writing for work-related reasons, I had halted writing creatively rendering it fatuous, egocentric and rambling. Yet, I felt sad that the joy of writing had been swept away. Like discovering that my favourite food was laden with redundant calories and toxic chemicals, my appetite for writing faded.
Then one day, the build-up of energy from not writing forced a flow of words into my consciousness like wildflowers appearing though cracks in a pavement. After an angry rant I was graced with wisdom which led to a healing journey.
No thing
It’s all codswallop. Everything. Every word that’s ever been uttered.
Gibberish. Why waste time writing? Why impose even more hogwash on the world?
That previously published book?
Balderdash. All made up in a moment.
Tucked away on a writing retreat booked under the illusion that thoughts are things.
Admonished now by the only words that make sense.
Twaddle, Baloney, Piffle.
Staring at a blank page… all weekend.
Dulled by the discovery that life is a meaningless movie that tricks the naïve.
Wandering in the garden with a camera, bottling nature.
At least the trees are real. Aren’t they?
No! Made up too. All of it.
Projection, from the tiny window of a mind
squeezing out a pathetic lie about the only truth there is.
Waking-up with a jolt.
Floccinaucinihilipilification.
There’s a word.
Decreeing everything worthless.
Tricked by another story.
The flavour of deadness, no feeling, numb, detached, cynical.
Life is an illusion,
but nothing to shun or hiss.
A game everyone gets to play.
Full on, one foot in, sitting on the side-lines or backed up, attempting to run away.
Life is there for the playing.
Make things up. Fall for the illusion again and again. But still create.
Write a book, take a photograph or ten,
make-up stories, cast other people as goodies and baddies,
fall in love, break-up, fall again,
bake a cake, smile, cry, practise yoga, run, mess things up,
make a plan, invent rules and break them,
form a habit and give yourself a gold star.
That’s the beauty.
Worlds made from thought.
That’s how it works.
Exactly, as intended.
Ephemeral, malleable, magical.
Jump into the sandpit and play or not.
It’s all good.
There’s no thing.
The conflict in my mind between stories and spirituality catalysed me to delve more deeply into both of these concepts. In 2021, I completed an MA in Creative Writing which was a two-year immersion in non-fiction story writing, and I’m currently in the midst of an MSc in Mindfulness in which I’m exploring our spiritual nature. The gap I perceive between storytelling and spirituality has narrowed.
While we are spiritual beings having a human experience, our human experience matters. Human experience is our reason for being on earth. Our five senses enable us to experience life through seeing, hearing, touching, tasting and smelling. Our somatic sensations enable us to sense and feel our embodied presence.
While realising that our spiritual nature is our essence, it is also important to recognise that we’re not here on earth to sit on top of mountains meditating for hours to access higher realms. We’re here to experience life with its beauty and its bounty. We’re here to experience difficulty too which is another facet of being human. We’re here for the full technicolour experience of living on this planet at this time with other humans. We’re here to connect and share our stories so that we can each recognise ourselves in the other. Connecting with one another through the felt sense of our stories is both human and spiritual. Our stories, enable us to recognise our ONE shared being.
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