The other day, I heard a New York Times Best Selling author say that, having written
some thirteen novels, he realized that words were not important; that “it’s all about
In my writing, I show little taste for “the story” and only so much sweetening in words as it takes to wash down what’s worth the writing and the reading and the time – and that is content. Content that’s more than drama, more than entertainment, more than knowledge. Content that contents is only found in reality, where we see to the bottom, and extract a thing significant from the thousand surface things that the plump and
pleasured mind so swiftly surveys. Slowly ingested Content that’s redolent with examined experience and distilled insight, that efficiently conveys almost entirely only that , as it illumines deeply beneath appearances toward an enriched resonate knowing.
Without useful content, one has consumed a low fiber diet; there’s hardly enough for sustenance, much less growth. This lack of fiber will lead to a piling up of waste – of matter undigested because undigestable, spun with artificial flavors and colors and nutrition-freed ingredients like a kids’ candy floss. If our future and our past are only mental abstractions, and we know this, then the quality of our life is to be found only here and now… today. So the content of now looms large on the entire landscape of our lives lived in time, and in our timeless living. Sunrise to sunset, sitting by a rain splashed window or reading beneath a winter white halogen lamp or in front of a flickering blue TV, we live eternally now.
The content of Now is this infinite and whole, unfiltered hereness. It is lucid, clear thisness that contains what we think and feel we know and are – the experience of this body/mind expression – and all that this same awareness knows is truly uncertain and unknown. We are this “content,” at once fully human and fully divine.