There is so much going on with me that I want to write about, but I am struggling with wanting to write it here. This paragraph from Enlightenment for Idiots, by Anne Cushman, captures my struggle:
But doing walking meditation in the garden, it hit me how blissful it was to be without words, to be in direct contact with experience instead: the sun on my face. The brilliant crimson of the hibiscus. The stench of the sewer in the street. The twitching of my baby inside me. The glimpse of wordless bliss was so powerful that I was seized with the compulsion to sneak back into my room and find my journal. You want to capture the butterflies of experience in the net of words, I told myself sternly. But all you’ll have left is dead bugs. Then I sat on my cushion and recited this insight over and over, so I would remember to write it down.
Some wonderful, challenging, enlightening things are happening with me — but words just seem to diminish it all. Maybe not diminish, but they fall way short of capturing it all and the effort hardly seems worth it.
Maybe I’ll find pictures.