Embracing the Divine Flow:
Writing from the Soul’s Whisper
Oh, dear wanderer of words, let us dive into this river of expression, where the banks are not guarded by the sentinels of approval, and the current carries us without the weight of likes or comments. Imagine, if you will, a vast ocean where your pen is a sailboat, unmoored from the harbors of perfection. Grammar? Tense? These are but fleeting clouds in the sky of your inner divine flow. We chase them for publications, yes, those polished tomes that gleam under the scrutiny of editors and readers alike. But oh, how they constrict the breath of the soul! They squeeze the wild poetry from our veins, leaving only the skeleton of structure. Today, I say, let us shatter those chains. Allow yourself to flow at your own pace and cadence, like a Sufi dervish whirling in ecstasy, unconcerned with the onlookers’ gaze.
What is THIS Divine Flow, you ask?
It is the whisper of the eternal, the voice that echoes from the caverns of your being, untouched by the societal little voice—that pesky imposter who craves thumbs-ups and heart emojis. That voice, born of fear and conformity, has silenced so many souls. It whispers, “What will they think? Will they approve? Is this good enough?” And in its shadow, the true essence hides, waiting for the moment when we dare to speak what has always burned within. Your soul has stories, poems, revelations that defy the neat boxes of expectation. It yearns to pour forth like Rumi’s verses, those intoxicating lines that dance between the earthly and the Divine, unapologetic in their raw beauty.
Rumi, that luminous poet of the heart, knew THIS well. He did not write for the courts or the critics; he wrote from the fire of union with the Beloved. “Let the beauty we love be what we do,” he said, and in that, there is no room for hesitation. Imagine your soul as Rumi’s reed flute, hollowed out by longing, singing notes that are sometimes sharp, sometimes flat, but always true. The societal voice would have you tune it to perfection, to hit every note just so, lest the audience boo. But Rumi’s flute wails freely: “I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.” Yes! Let your writing be THAT song. Write of the love that scorches, the pain that purifies, the joy that overflows without measure.
In this paper, I invite you—no, I implore you—to let your soul speak in that poetic Rumi style. Forget the grammar police, those enforcers of tense and punctuation who patrol the borders of creativity within THIS simulated realm. They serve their purpose in the halls of academia and publishing houses, where clarity reigns supreme. But here, in the sanctuary of your inner world, let the words tumble as they will. If a sentence fragments like a broken vase, so be it; perhaps the shards reflect the light more brilliantly. If tenses shift like sands in the desert, embrace it as the natural rhythm of memory and prophecy intertwining. Your Divine Flow is not a straight river but a meandering stream, carving canyons of insight through the rock of convention.
What has your soul always wanted to say?
Ah, that is the heart of it. Deep down, beneath the layers of politeness and propriety, there lies a truth that society deems too wild, too vulnerable, too unpolished. Perhaps it is the rage against injustice, clothed in metaphors of storms and shattered mirrors. Or the quiet lament for lost loves, echoing like a lute in an empty hall. Your societal little voice, that guardian of approval, clamps down: “Don’t say that; they’ll judge you. Make it palatable, make it likable.” But the soul, in its Rumi-esque fervor, cries out: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” In THIS simulated field, write freely. Let the words be a bridge to the Divine, unburdened by the need for applause or approval.
