When you go To Word (to write contemplative so to work on words and work out their logic to the point of life's delight), you need not know ahead of time what's going to happen, what's in the works to be written. That's one of the delights of the act, the art. In the wording act all is at ease and rests in the lap of luxury. In the magnificent comfort of total trust, you might even be a little disappointed if there were no surprises, no room to breathe in the room plain, or the page bare. (Evidence the time you witnessed automatic writing with the so-called unconscious evidently doing all the work).
At the start you may actually have nothing at all to say, not a word, but are more than willing to be led, if backward, into the stall. Since contemplative matters are so uncertain, indefinite, out of the hands of the worder, there's practically a demand, definitely a command:
That Small Will Must Be Surrendered. Still, it sure helps to have a topic of interest, the one thing the worder may enjoy some control over.
Surely there's no more interesting topic of Deep Spirit than its Dwelling Place, the curious search for the where ness of God, the location of divinity, sacred space, hallowed ground, godly presence. In questionable format you could wonder plain, Where does God live? Where's the neighborhood holy? Who would not move there? Who would not give up everything to get there? You can imagine it as The Great God Rush.
After untold centuries of prospecting for God, with mountains of research stacked up, there seems, still, no unified field theory, so to put it scientific. There's no point of view from which people of all the earth might pray, no worldwide consensus, like the World Wide Web, for instance. It's a pity you could not just call AT&T numbers, or log onto AOL and cast your vote. But none of that is available; the hero worship of reality TV is completely out of place in looking for God's Place; well, not utterly.
The gold bars lead to what's next,
the earth takes you back home.
