Namaste.

Four weeks have passed since I took a deep breath and put Reswyt ‘out there,’ as it were. In that time, I have learned what it is to be humble, to be grateful, to be simultaneously challenged and  accepted. I’ve heard from you; questions, comments, endorsements, all seeking more, wanting to understand a certain truth of your own design, your own making, beyond the printed page.

For those exchanges, I offer you namaste. Thank you. I am overwhelmed – to the point of writing this alternating between the keyboard and silent moments, hand to my mouth, willing tears back.

You see, the literary welcome you have given me has been exceptional. The emails and Facebook messages and Amazon reviews I’ve read have left me speechless.

Writing is an act of disrobing in public, in a way that few artistic media can replicate. Paintings are interpreted, the positioning of this hand, lascivious or virginal as it might be, betraying a wealth of the artist’s motivations; the sun here or there in the sky betraying an autumnal fervor of action, or a springlike joy. Music, as I know, is interpreted, too; it reveals volumes of its creator’s being; go listen to Rakim by Dead Can Dance and tell me more about a parent’s hope and fear and loss and courage and nobility than you will hear therein. Go and listen to Spiegel Im Spiegel by Arvo Pärt and tell me more about faith in the enduring depth of love than Pärt tells you – I defy you.

But it is still interpretation.

Whereas writing…is removing your clothes. Few more direct lines exist between one’s soul-essence and the medium of exchange. I know that; I have stopped in the writing of Reswyt to go outside and scream, to curl my fists against the injustice of being, to bitterly contemplate the gaping holes that loss and fear create in our lives and mutely acknowledge the inability of anything to balm the very edges of those holes, let alone fill them. Its creation brought forth things I have often beaten back into the abyssal voids they live in, virtually inviting them out to participate in the strange, otherworldly process of creation.

And only one of two things is going to happen when that process becomes available to the public. The one, you fear; the other, you hope for, but being too much to hope for, it exists in a realm of otherworldly endorsement no one dares hope for, for the fear of being undermined or negated in the act. Hoping for it, in short,  sets up too long and potentially fatal of a fall.

It is simply too much to ask of the world we live in, you and I; and yet, I have tasted of it.

That’s why I offer you a namaste, and not just a mere thank you;  the divine in me, whatever there was that provided the creation of this work, bows to the divine in you. And you know who you are. What many of you have offered to me in your emails and messages goes well beyond acknowledgment. It mirrors the divine in you, the best of yourself. I am honored to have received even a sliver of that into my being. It has been, without qualification or exception, a truly divine experience to share this work with you.

Namaste.

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2 thoughts on “Namaste.

  1. Struggling to maintain an interest in reading Perdido Street Station, perhaps steampunk isn’t my cup of tea in which case..

    • dwmayer says:

      I love Mieville dearly, but there are sections where he falls in love with a concept that could get covered more quickly than he does. (I’m guilty of the same…most writers are). I’d advise you to persevere through his dry sections…the payoff is almost always spectacular.

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