How do you find that which can’t be sought?
Easy. Give up the search and realize there’s nothing to find. And in so doing, recognize the splendid discovery you’ve made: that whatever you’ve been searching for can’t be found because it’s yours already.
Now, let me repeat that again because it’s crucially important: give up the search and realize there’s nothing to find.
Man… I wish I’d known that a few months ago. It would have saved me a whole lot of pain and heartache. But it’s a necessary lesson well-learned.
(Although, let’s be honest, that last bit is so pregnant with hope that I’m almost embarrassed to type the words… almost.)
But let’s back up a bit, so I can explain to you what I was looking for—and why unspooling has undergone yet another season of growth and change…
since i am just a boy at school
It felt like my entire life had turned to shit. I was done. I was over it. Excuse me, sir, but where can I find the emergency exit because I have to get off this ride…
Forget writing.
I judged every word on the page, every idea in the mind, and everything else in between with the harsh malignity normally reserved for war criminals and serial rapists.
Nothing was good enough. And I mean nothing.
The mountain was too high to climb.
I was so, so very deep in the Pit.
wahwahwahwahwahwahwahwah
We’ve heard this all before. Moving on.
i asked my teacher, “what should i try?”
I’m sure I don’t need to describe to you—to anyone—how readily the Pit—that combination of malaise, ennui, and melancholy—can disarm and unman you.
That’s what happened to me.
I clammed up. For almost two months, I didn’t write a thing. Not one single goddamned word.
My spark was dim—almost out, truth be told. And any joy I’d previously found in practicing my craft had long since evaporated like so much smoke. What had once been rich sweet cream had curdled and gone sour in my mouth. So I hawked and spit the bit.
I couldn’t go on, not like that.
So I let go. It was the only option that made sense. And somehow I found faith sufficient to trust the Muse to catch me before I hurtled back to earth at terminal velocity.
“should i paint pictures? should i sing songs?”
She caught me half a second before impact. My toes may even have kissed the ground, I don’t know. Can’t remember on account of the heart palpitations and severe vertigo. But what shocked me most happened after we had reached a safe cruising altitude, when she lifted me up to her bosom and squeezed my tender, quaking body against her breast, soothing my panicked soul with an outpouring of such pure love that it radiated joy like a sunbeam gives off heat: she started laughing. Hysterically.
Eventually, I joined in. I couldn’t help myself. How could I? As low as I had sunk, as bad I had felt, there was still a little flame somewhere deep, deep down inside that was flickering, a spark of potential.
When our laugher finally subsided, she flew us over to a nearby mountaintop and perched us atop a scenic overlook with a commanding view of the forested valley below. There was a thin, squiggly line of a river running through the heart of the valley. It tapered off at the horizon but no doubt ran for many miles beyond my sight, rushing ever onwards towards the sea. The air at that altitude was crisp and clean and laden with serenity.
Eventually, she looked up at me and her gaze turned serious and she asked me whether I understood the lesson.
I said that I thought I had.
She nodded, and I took that to understand that I was to explain myself.
I said that I needed to reconnect with the joy I had once felt while practicing my craft. To rediscover the irrational passion I had once poured into my creations.
She nodded in acknowledgement but remained silent.
I continued.
“Everything depends on my ability to stop worrying and to start playing. To get over the fucking preciousness already and just dive into the mud without heed or care.”
“Yes. But can you do that?”
Her eyes were simultaneously as hard as granite and soft as down.
“Can you afford yourself that opportunity—or do you want to sabotage that, too?”
Her words stung… but only because they were steeped in truth. There was shame then. But no tears. Rising in their place was something else.
A recognition perhaps. That I had lost sight of the entire enterprise. That I had become results-oriented and goal-driven. That I had desired to control every minute detail down to the most precisely intricate. That I had wanted to hold the whole world in my palm. And worst of all, that I had perverted my practice into something that was anything but.
“I swear to you and all that is holy…” I said, finally matching the intensity of her gaze, “I don’t know how many times I’ll have to climb into this fucking saddle… but I’m going to ride this fucking horse if it fucking kills me. And that’s the truth.”
this was her wise reply
You’re going to see me use the word “practice” a lot going forward. (Allen Iverson ain’t got nothin’ on me!) And that’s because my relationship to the craft has evolved. Ever since the start of my Substack journey, I’ve written pieces and posted them here with the explicit intent of—pick your poison: making money, earning a reputation, growing my skills, forging connections, pleasing you, pleasing myself, securing the wellbeing of myself and my family, etc, etc, etc.
I’ve always been after something—searching, in other words.
But my recent brush with the Pit—and subsequent encounter with the Muse—has taught (reminded?) me that all that shit’s beside the point. Because the point of practice is to what? Now say it with me: PRACTICE!
And that’s exactly what I intend to do.
Because practice doesn’t make perfect—perfection is, in fact, the antithesis of practice. Rather, practice makes practice. Which doesn’t sound all that exciting, I know, but trust me, it really is! Because the more you practice—as with yoga or meditation—the easier practice becomes and the more benefits you receive for your diligence and adherence to the Path. And that’s where the magic happens. That’s it. That’s the secret. That’s where you discover the unfindable. There is no other formula than that: practice, practice, practice. All other concerns are, quite literally, illusory.
I intend to let myself play with words like it’s the old days. Like I don’t carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I will try my very best to drop the urge to direct and control and instead operate from a place of openness and acceptance.
And I will endeavour to find calm contentedness as the creative cycle spins along, generating seasons of growth as well as seasons of stillness and reflection.
I’m going to try—and I’m going to fail—but I’m going to try, and I’m going to keep trying, to walk the Path of Practice. I hope I can find the inner strength to accept the chips will fall as they may.
What does that mean?
Well, it means that what I share with you here going forward isn’t a product to be sold—though I’ll happily remind you that a paid subscription helps me to make ends meet—or “content” to be produced and consumed on a clockwork schedule—though I’ll happily assure you that I will be as consistent and diligent with my practice as humanly possible. Nor is it—despite my desire to please you and feel useful—a “trick” to be performed for the benefit of others or myself.
Instead, what I am offering here at unspooling is the fruits of my practice. Nothing more, nothing less.
And practice I will. As much as I possibly can. And I think you’re going to like what you see. I know I have been.
When I was growing up, my parents went through this phase where they told us kids that no, we didn’t have to do the dishes… we got to do them. And while I’m pretty sure the end of all that came as a result of one of us throwing that same paltry argument back around at one of them at a particularly inopportune time, there really is a deep font of wisdom to be found in that mentality if you can perform the mental gymnastics necessary to land there.
I used to feel like my craft was something I had to do—and not only that: something I had to do well. Extremely well! I imagined that the stakes were high… I mean unimaginably high… life-or-death kind of high. Which instilled in me a mindset so clogged with seriousness that it choked off my output as often as not.
It may be gradual and slower than I would like, but the progress I’ve made in my practice—even in the last month—is both undeniable and significant. I see now that the well of what this craft has to teach me is truly bottomless. And now I know that mastery is something to always strive for but to never worry over falling short of.
I feel like I can finally enjoy the journey without having to constantly worry over whether I’ll arrive at “the destination” because there is no destination when you’re just out for a stroll on the Path. I might have to learn the most obvious lessons in the most painful ways possible, but I have to believe at the end of the day that I can simply “practice.”
Thankfully, the Muse doesn’t seem to mind if you’re a slow learner. She demands only that you have the humility to let go and the determination press on. Nothing more, nothing less.
Now practice, my friends. Practice!
c.d.
The transformation that has taken place since you started Substack is amazing and I’m right there with you….in the practice and the letting go…glad to be on this journey with you.
Bravo, my friend!