- 1.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Home
- 2.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Gravity of Relationship
- 3.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Light
- 4.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Beyond Voting: Albert and Kristina
- 5.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Energy of Summer
- 6.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Zen Koan
- 7.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Looking at Death
- 8.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Last Time
- 9.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Stick-to-it-ive-ness
- 10.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Forces of Nature
- 11.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Courage
- 12.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – September 3rd
- 13.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Illusion of Time
- 14.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Finding Voice
- 15.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – A Talk Amongst Rocks
- 16.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – How to be in Conversation with the Universe
“True art is characterized by an irresistible urge in the creative artist.”
Conversations with Dead People is a series of stories which show up in my meditative practice, Contemplative Writing. With this practice I sit with pen and paper, twenty minutes, and write to a prompt from a meditative space. I share these stories with minimal edits to share the depth, the directness, the deep body sense, I experience with my teachers.
Albert Einstein pops into my writing often, we hang out, giving us both a direct chance to explore the illusion of time. Albert feeds me tremendous encouragement to trust the irresistible urge I have to grieve, and heal, through death.
We also meet Thomas Merton, Georgia O’Keeffe, Carl Jung, and more through this weekly blog, Conversations with Dead People: A Series. Please join us each week.
Pen to Paper, 20 Minute Writing
Albert Einstein and I are driving home from my dermatology appointment. The skin on my left arm, a nick scooped out for biopsy, is on my heart. My arm hurts. I’m scared. I exit the highway, stopping at a massive intersection, and reach over to squeeze Albert’s hand. A young woman, her parka hood covering her hair but not the shame on her face, holds a sign reading “Homeless,” and shivers against the stoplight. There are more words on the sign, but they are too small and far away to read. Her body is not – yet she seems about to fall over from the cold, or is it the gravity of grief that pushes her down?
She shivers, the heavy snow covering her dark, curly hair and the fur around her face. I squeeze Albert’s hand more tightly. I want to give the woman what she needs, but instead, shame surges – a deep sense of giving up before I’ve even begun with her.
The stoplight turns green and I drive along. Still, I bring my need to nurture with me.
“What is home?” I ask Albert.
“I am blessed with home,” he responds.
“Could I bring her home, like I’ve brought home baby birds, friends, and teenagers?”
“What is homelessness,” Albert philosophizes. “A woman standing in a busy intersection, human eyes stripping her naked?”
“Aren’t human beings beautiful?” I ask.
“Ah yes, the Universe witnessing itself. She did it, right? How many years did it take? Over 13 billion to create eyes and ears for the Universe to witness itself spinning, to witness itself expanding, to witness itself standing on a street corner shivering.”
“Yes. A homeless Universe,” Albert reflects.
Just then, I pull into my driveway and Albert jumps out of the car, heading to the chicken coop for his daily meditation.