The Dying Space in Between Creation

The Dying Space in Between Creation

INTRO: This essay dives into “the dying space in between creation” — a space where grief lives alongside birth, where letting go hurts as much as it liberates. Finishing the millionth draft of my bilingual poetry book, soon to be published, left me proud and broken at once, mourning the loss of what was mine while trusting it to the world. In this space, creation is inseparable from grief: the death of the old self, the release of words, and the trembling rebirth of something greater than me. And the pain that travels along side with me.

THE DYING SPACE IN BETWEEN CREATION.

I just finished what in my eyes is the MILLIONTH draft of my bilingual poetry book (most will call it the third draft, but they have no clue how intensity grows everything in expansion… you know, the place where one year is one day and a hundred in the same moment?).

Anyway, this will be the second book of my trilogy From God to Human — aka from ‘God consciousness’ (the non-duality experience) to Human (the everything within being human that you are in experience).

I must say: the theme of the three (From God to Human), together with the very NON-logical decision to make a poetry trilogy in three different languages, baffles me with brilliance. It’s really a masterpiece in this field, even if it will take some years before it gets picked up. These books are not born for success — they simply are.

Anyway, again sorry, but I'm just so fucking proud, while dying of the feeling of having lost this work that I just finished editing. It was a proper birth, and the cut of the umbilical cord killed a part of me. I laid as a foetus on my ochre yellow rug, sobbing and feeling the pain of the loss of my words. This book is no longer mine. She will make her own steps into the world and be observed by thousands of different realities. The ripples she will create (and already did) I cannot fathom.

I was never so proud. I also never felt this much shock after releasing the need to work ‘harder’ on it — aka the fear of letting go.

I once read that for a writer, the work is never really finished, only abandoned and let go. The words never seem to tell what you want them to. They always fall a little bit short. So then again, the new book is written. Just because it’s about the process of understanding, birthing, creation, attachment, the sense of aliveness and purpose and true love, and — for many poets — the only real connection there is. Some call it sad… peasants.

Anyway, part III: here I sit writing an essay about the dying space in between creation, and you can notice that within this space creation is still here (yes, this is deeper than you think).

I’m lucky to have met new humans lately that I like, and who like me. They bring me rest, presence, being taken care of and a new space to be…
I’m currently writing this with my favorite mountain view, in a little queen tower (I cannot call it differently), overlooking a small mountain city with a blooming community and her three hundred different shades of green forest speaking along the valley. The fresh mountain air makes me breathing deeper and tickles my skin. I notice myself smiling on the sound of the dancing leaves. Life is a movie.

In this ‘space in between creation,’ I suffer a lot of physical pain. And I mean a lot. My trauma (TBI) brain put a blazing fire through my whole system, and there were days that I crawled (instead of walked) Django crying in the little piazza before my house, where I had to stop every 5 meters to cry from pain and exhaustion. Migraines kept me from light, movement, food, and sleep. And of course, the cramps made my body into a plank, sometimes for minutes… (I think this is why I am not afraid of death 😁).

At the same time, I experienced my lack of asking for help, and some people showing up for me despite me not asking. What a fucking gift. Even now I have to stop typing due to muscle cramps and the fire in my body growing into a monster of a neck/shoulder/hand cramp and her best friend: ‘headache and fog brain.’

I pause for water and a walk while breathing. (Oh, she found painkillers — it must be bad.)

Now back to the dying space in between creation.
The inescapable.
The beginning.
The rebirth.
The letting go.
The trusting.
The humanning.

The senses taking over the creation process and the brain projects a story upon them. Poetry is born in this space. Even when it’s in between the creating of poetry (books).

I know I don’t make much sense to many, but I just feel melancholic.

It wouldn’t surprise you that I, as we speak, am bleeding (yes, that blood) everywhere in the former summer residence of the Pope (yes, I am in a mansion), and I love the irony of it (pun intended). Not that I knew the man, and maybe he was just as obsessed by blood as I am, but the picture made of the virtue of the ‘man in white’ would live in minds as if his body couldn’t even own blood (sin lives in the blood, you see…).

Once again, the time called history collapses within the moment, and I’m bleeding on the idea of it — as the witch that I am. I would have loved to have a conversation with him, but until now he didn’t show up.

I don’t know if you catch the brilliance that I’m randomly throwing at you — little pearls of wisdom to be found in every random paragraph of this essay. Even when it seems I’m writing about nothing…

I (will) live in the unknown of the moving ripples again.

‘The dying space in between creation’ is, in my experience, a very messy space. Grief has her roots here. And grief is a heavy field for the human system.

Here is the space where one has to slow down, where the brain screams to move faster (to get away from the intensity of feeling this grief). The space of cultivating more trust and catching the breath more often. The space where the light shines on new, formerly unseen selves — aka grieving the movement between unseen and seen.

By now we know: if the system acknowledges a new dark part becoming light, we shift the thing we call identity. So we grieve the loss of the ‘old,’ or rather, the attachment to it.

It ALWAYS comes at the right moment. You cannot miss it, and you cannot run away from it. Even when you THINK you are running from it — aka identifying with the brain madness — you cannot. It’s impossible to miss it. We are human beings after all.

Though it is possible to not see it — attachment to the dark (unseen) parts, aka ‘stuck in an identity without realizing one is not that.’ But this is often because of the fear of the intensity of grief.

This, when chosen to change, in time and experience, will become just a cycle… like blood, like seasons, like space.

I call it: ‘the dying space in between creation.’ Or at least for now, since as always I lacked the right words to catch the experience. But God knows I tried. He didn’t put me in the house of the Pope for nothing!

So long, bitches!
Godspeed.