There are many ways of looking at the highly personal Silent Process of Godwriting.
You can think of Godwriting as listening to bird song early in the morning or at night fall. The tune the birds sing is easy to pick up. The birds sing alike. Yet, you, the listeners at dawn or dusk, may pick up slightly different versions of lyrics according to your moment of Soul Listening. What can the lyrics be? Here come the lyrics! They accompany the sweet simple song. They come in varying colors and tones of each Godwriter. There is no standard of correctness. There is only what comes. It comes as it comes, as if from different yet companionable musical instruments that resonate like the varying colors of the rainbow.
Godwriting is more like composing music in the sense that it comes to you, and then the lyrics come along as they come. You are someone writing down what comes to you. This is what you do. This is your light typing. This is your best without having to be what the world calls best. It isn’t your best at all. Bestness is not even a consideration. You are by no means trying to do your best Godwriting. It isn’t your Godwriting in the first place. It is more like you are playing an old forgotten tune on the typewriter keys you touch so lightly.
You’re not in a trance, yet it can be stated that you are entranced by the music and the pursuant words that seem to arise from your simply being present, as if the lyrics rise up from the mist or from a long unused hollow in your throat. You are clearing your throat, so to speak. Ahem. Something overwhelming and understated seems to arise.
Or, you are a buyer of fine silk. You walk by reams of silk. Your eyes gaze at the shades of colors. Your fingertips lightly feel the subtlety of the silk. Your fingertips favor the softness here and there. It is as if your fingertips make the appraisal of the silk and which reams you will purchase. Something so fine that you have never touched before quells your heart. It is almost a non-thought, for you are not thinking. It is more like a faint remembrance that announces itself so quietly, almost as if you are not present with Me at all. It is so far away the song you almost hear. Your fingers choose. The choice you make isn’t exactly your choice at all. Your choice just arises, your hearing comes from the far distance yet so close as your heart. You welcome the waves of wonderfulness. The waves waft as it were. You pick up the words as your arms are upwardly extended as you ascend. You are not conscious of ascending. You are not running after it.
Now, when you finish a particular interlude of Godwriting, it’s not that you descend, yet you do level-off. Of course, you just slid down the ladder from a barely recognized re-creation room. We could call it a revitalizing room, a recognized room, a room for a silent tune-up, a room you wish you could recognizably stay in forever without cease.
You may whisper: “God, may I stay here forever and anon?”
I place My right palm gently on the top of your head. I say: “The piano that plays is always playing. You are listening to one of those roller-pianos of old. It is always on in the background.”
Despite all the lures of the world, there may be no place you would rather be than in the re-creation room with Me. You are where judgment does not enter and where you want to be where music is clearly playing in the background to the beat of your heart, your beautiful heart.
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