No 7: Devotion

Yesterday I spoke about how asking questions opens up a channel for us to receive messages from our intuition. I’m currently reading a book about Intuition, and the author, Amisha Ghadiali, encourages us to be open to synchronicities. Each morning, after meditating, I sift through the my notebook and choose at random which poem to share. Today, I landed on the poem Devotion, which is about the importance of small, consistent acts over time that lead to growth. As I reached for a post-it to mark the page, it had a message that I’d written on it the day before that read:

(What are you planting in your mind?)

In our culture, we so often overestimate the influence of large, swift movements, and overlook the importance of incremental, every day acts. Usually we are seeking for something magical, a perfect ending, a dream like castle – to absolve us from difficulty, when such imaginings intrude on the wonder that unfolds in front of our eyes. We are the keepers of our own magic that exists at our fingertips when we court it consciously.  Any kind of craft demands this kind of devotion, to kneel down on the time that we’ve been given each day, and to tend to our practice. To seek for joy and beauty no matter the intensity or frailty of the conditions we find ourselves in. 
It is in the devotion to these small acts, the offerings to the subtle unfolding of beauty, where we liberate ourselves from that which comes between us and our art. It is not what we wish we could be that expands us, but what we consistently do each day, over time, that leads to our growth. It is the granular, elemental exploration of minuscule actions that allow what’s greater than us to come through and into our work and our lives. I don’t know what will become of the works of creation that come through your hands, but I know what happens to inspiration that isn’t tended to. It dies inside. There is a greatness in the everyday, and it is through the repetition of these small, imperceptible and yet courageous acts, that we are granted access to it. 


As I realise 
The smallness of myself 
I encounter 
The borderless states 
That want to dance and delve and sing 
Beyond the things, 
That scare us, 
That are bound so tightly 
Behind a screen. 

In this game of living and dying, 
There is everything to ask for, 
In the things so intangible 
They elude measurement, or footfall, Or  scope. 
But it is these small things, 
That make me larger: 
The pages turning, 
Beneath the pen, 
The morning prayer, 
Are what I will, 
To a lifetime, devote. 

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