I step into that small opening, with almost nothing but the discipline to remain beside it, because I know how badly I want guarantees in every craving that has kept my hands hovering,
I step into that small opening, not with a clean map but with one live thread I can follow, and how little control that thread promises once I choose to trust it with my attention,
I step into that small opening, I wait for the whole shape to arrive before I begin as I bargaining with fear, even something vital inside me grows tired of being postponed,
I step into that small opening, can I let one small beginning be enough for today,
I step into that small opening, once I stop demanding the ending, work begins to breathe in ways my anxious planning never could have forced…
I move with patient listening, even though a part of my heart still yearns for the creation, it means never allowing the others to alter my own perception,
I move with patient listening, the most charged moments often come when the piece leans away from my intention as something deeper is asking for room to grow
I move with patient listening, but the old habit in me tightens whenever surprise appears before it reveals itself as a perfect invitation,
I move with patient listening, am I resisting because this turn is wrong or because I did not choose it first,
I move with patient listening, and when I stay through that little wound the work sometimes opens a door I never would have built on purpose…
I loosen my grip, not because I care less but because I care enough to know that strangling a thing is not the same as shaping it,
I loosen my grip, I can feel how much of my tension comes from wanting my effort to prove my worth immediately, each attempt to behave as evidence to trust myself now,
I loosen my grip, making asks for a different courage, the kind that can remain awake without possession, the kind that can meet the unexpected without treating it as failure,I loosen my grip, can I remain present without forcing the moment to validate me,
I loosen my grip, the room inside the work becomes larger the second I stop guarding every corner like a frightened creator…
I follow the surprising turns, still I know exactly where to press if it wants to stir old impatience and old suspicion,
I follow accidents, some of the turns that once embarrassed me later became the pulse of the missing piece, what I resisted hardest was the part trying to take me somewhere needed,
I follow accidents, but surrendering to them is never easy for me, it bruises the neatness I had hoped would keep me safe, as it compels me to risk wonder without any guarantees,
I follow accidents, can I make room for what didn’t arrive according to my original plan,
I follow the unexpected turn of the hand, sometimes the wrong turn becomes the opening the work I was waiting for, and I remember that the work does not ask for perfection, only for my willingness to continue,
Watchwords:
one live thread,
the work begins breathing,
That little wound to my control,
a frightened owner,
the wrong color in my hand,
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
