Writing Nothing

Mr. Lowe, my high school English teacher, told me in no uncertain terms, “Michael, whatever you do in life, you should be a writer.” It took me twenty years to think about it, and another ten to do any serious writing. Now, another thirty years have passed, and I am only beginning to glimpse what Mr. Lowe saw in me. Although I’ve self-published a number of small books, the feeling for being a writer is just dawning on me, and I desire to become more skillful.

I wish I had taken more writing classes, and that’s still a possibility. In the meantime, I’m trying to catch up by exploring contemporary writing guides like Susan Griffin’s book, Out of Silence, Sound. Out of Nothing, Something. A very Zen title, I think. The short chapters, filled with insightful observations and prompts, are incredibly inspiring. Her words seem to be helping me shed some of my old writing habits. I hope my skills evolve to the point where I am at least able to inhabit the boundary between competent and terrible, written well enough to be encouraging without being annoying.

As I continue to write, I am now feeling more like a writer who teaches the Dharma, rather than a Dharma teacher who happens to write. It is a weird shift in illusory self-image and I don’t know where I fit in either world. Though I happen to be a Dharma teacher, I do not have complete training in the lineage of my Buddhist teachers. Do I have a place there? Well, maybe a small chair at the table. I take solace in the fact that many of my lineage ancestors have been somewhat unconventional in their training. At my age, I am not inclined to go back to formal Buddha school.

So, I am content to offer what I can, whether writing or teaching, regardless of my perceived place. Maybe I will write a book entitled, Dharma Nonsense: Nothing to See Here. That seems to cover everything.