We could safely say that there is such a thing as unconditional expression that does not come from self or other. It manifests out of nowhere like mushrooms in a meadow, like hailstones, like thundershowers.
From a Western perspective, art is often about shoring up the self – or at the very least is held to emanate from a self, whereas in the Buddhist view there is no self. Chögyam Trungpa says that when we are creating from a more awakened place: ‘We no longer regard a work of art as a gimmick or as confirmation, it is simply expression – not even self-expression, just expression.’Dance, when I am completely present, is for me essentially like mushrooms or hailstones – it’s simply the truest possible expression of myself existing. Writing is a lot more tricky. And yet it seems to be important in some way for me to write. Not indispensible, like dancing, but important.
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Some people have commented on the degree of self-exposure in this blog. The reality is that I don’t feel I actually expose myself much at all. What I write here is a specific kind of distillation of my experience. A lot of the time – like now – I’m writing about writing (or not writing) about my experience. I don’t reveal the tender places.
When the last snow finally melted from my garden, the primroses had come into bloom underneath. That's how I feel about writing here. I leave the snow alone, and if in the end some flowers show themselves, that's OK with me.
