what is stopping me from whittling away at it?

this morning's meditation is bright, awake. after getting out of bed it comes to me to go into the yard for a little bit. a little bit. that's very clear. so i do. i water the roses. our eight roses are splendid and forgiving. they are so happy just to get a little bit moisturized while sending up these gorgeous, fragrant beauties even though i've been holding back on watering because of water department recommendation. anyway i have a pattern of going into the yard and getting carried away not realizing i am exhausting myself, often to the point of hurting the body. where am i? o yes, so i meditate after half an hour in the yard. that in itself takes all the spiritual will i have accumulated. i can feel the pull to stay longer. i can hear the figs, bamboos are saying, good morning, so nice to see you. but, really, my point is somehow this unscheduled activity imbues my meditation with brightness and alertness that are marinated with intoxicating sweetness. i watch the inbreath deepening naturally, the outbreath lengthening. i respectfully hold attention on the space where the outbreaths dissolve into like foam into ocean. the sense of satisfaction is beyond measure. the closes approximation i can come up with is this. lying on the silky, milky sand on the fiji island where the movie that brooke shield stars in when she is sixteen, drop dead gorgeous. sparkling and gentle waves wash the body in these massage moves that smoothe out whatever tensions lodged within fibres and tissues. the mind that is conditioned to get satisfaction from things external can't really wrap around this. it's all right. i don't feel the urge to explain it. i just watch the mind go vibrantly still. i know i am washed clean by the source of potentiality from whence the physical universe and stars, planets and galaxies spring.

so there i am reveling in this wonder all within my own being when some long-buried memory makes its appearance. it comes with embarrassment and shame. probably i have consciously shoved it into some dark attic in the belly or pinkie. i make an effort to take in a deep, deep breath. as the oubreath makes its course, long and fine like the lotus stalk that arises out of a muddy pond, i look at it, in spite of the habitual pull that says, no, i don't want to look at it.

i am all of twenty-eight. i decide i want to write a movie script. so i do. i take it to a producer in a big movie studio. a few weeks later she calls me and says, i show it to my boss, she likes it, she wants to talk to you. what else could she want? make it into a movie. she says, suk wah, you play a nice planning role, after a few you'll direct. now, here's where my stupidity and arrogance kick in. it was the time when the first 'rocky' comes out. somehow i am hit with the idea that i can push this. so i say, either i direct or no movie. well, the studio head complies and shelves it.

before returning attention to meditation i ask this question. why am i seeing this now? what do i have to learn from this? the answer comes in a follow up memory. several years after that episode the studio head says, suk wah, i really like that script, is there any way you can look at it again? did i do it? no. why? i don't know. bingo. this is it. this is what's relevant to me right now. i have this manuscript. in order to finish it properly, to get it out there, i have to look at it again. and some how i just can't bring myself to examine it line by line, page by page. what is stopping me from whittling away at it day after day, the way i wrote it in the first place?