Writer’s block and meditation are two sides of the same coin: they are both misunderstood as completely as a thing can be said to be misunderstood. I suppose that is a tautology, as many will have been tripped over that coin I placed in your path, stuck to the sidewalk with so much overchewed gum.
Or perhaps the grasping, globular intellect seized quite involuntarily upon a common causeway to traffic meaning between the two: Absence?
Vulgar vernacular has writer’s block down as an absence of sorts: a blank page refusing to surrender itself to ink or carbon or variant pixels. Selfsame for meditation, although intentional: achieving the blank page of the mind and standing sentries around it that reject arrant thoughts, plant trees as windbreaks that keep out wisps of ideas while we sit, perhaps Zazen, with nothingness.
When, though, was a blockade or any form of blockage about nothingness? And how does one construct sentries and windbreaks in the mind without thinking?
Relax, it’s rhetorical: there is no nothingness. Nature abhors a vacuum—or is it that vacuuming comes naturally to a whore?
No matter. The Truth of it is that writer’s block is about crowding: too many notions and potions, ideations and creations competing for primacy, hoping to be borne onto a page: thoughts alchemize when they hit the air and are forever changed, and the little pricks know that.
And they know it’s worth fighting for and, lordjesusfargochrist do they know it. And fight they do, and it’s the murderous storming clamor that drowns out thought itself, that clogs up the pipeline and creates—you guessed it—blockage.
And what’s this to do with meditation? Meditation is about letting go of the valve on that pipeline, letting the clamor happen and letting those little pricks just exhaust themselves or go hoarse. Either is acceptable, because the outcome is same: respite for you.
Sentries aren’t needed and windbreaks are beside the point because there is no point to be made: thoughts have run their course and you’re left with You. Which is to say, nothing. Because truly, self-image is a construct, just another one of those little pricks, if you will, vying for me-time. Reach that point in meditation and, well, there’s not enough other to record the trip.
So you might have actually been there before: if you’ve truly been successful, you won’t ever know it.
It’s what death must be like. There’s no you remaining to experience the truth of it, and so the little pricks of the world clamor to paste handbills of riotous, shallow meaning to it and call it truth.
Christianity. Atheism (capital-A, rabid variety). Islam. Only the Buddhists are self-abnegating, which is why you’ll never see a Buddhist with a gun and a Plan for Self-Ascendancy, and that should tell you all you need to know.
Shakespeare, for all his fathering of Western Literature, is the Ironic Critic of all its mundanity. He made up literally (ha!) thousands of words because the West had no means of describing the things his mind cooked up.
Not a whit, we defy augury. There’s a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,
‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The
readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves,
what is’t to leave betimes?
And there is a special providence in the fall of every sparrow. There’s just no need to manufacture a special provider in order to appreciate that fact: We do indeed defy augury.