Writing is Process

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed person is king. If I could see clearly, I wouldn't be writing this. Maybe I would be writing something else, but not this. My inability to understand the "what is", my inability to live the present moment fully, compels me to face the blank page—and to trust the process. And the process of writing brings me back to the now.

As I embark on my Master's in Marriage and Family Therapy (MFT) at TUW, I find myself at a crossroads both personal and professional. The path ahead is uncertain—I'm not even sure if I'll pursue licensure, given the complex bureaucratic landscape and the possibility of returning to Brazil. Yet, something deeper calls me: the desire to share knowledge, to create community, to truly embrace life as a continuous process of becoming.

A part of me believes it knows why I don't have all the answers. Today, it suggests it's because I lack a Master's degree in Psychology. Months ago, it was because I hadn't completed all the meditations in "A Course in Miracles." Years ago, it was because I hadn't read all the Philosophy books ever written. This part of me often promises that with enough effort, the future will be brighter, but it struggles to accept the reality of the present—the ongoing process of life itself.

I'll call this part consciousness, and the part that observes and accepts the unknown, awareness. In consciousness, opposing forces constantly battle. Without awareness, we are tossed between these opposites. But what if enlightenment is simply the profound acceptance of life as an unfolding process?

Writing demands balancing will and resistance. True creativity occurs when these forces harmonize, leading to a flow state—a moment where consciousness transcends self-identification and awareness simply observes. This state releases the Self from the prison of consciousness, allowing pure creation to unfold. Perhaps this flow state is process itself—not a destination, but a way of being.

I've experienced this flow state, and I came to believe that if enlightenment is real, it might be simply an extended process of awareness. Not something unearthly, but a state that allows consciousness to operate by its own laws while awareness holds space for love to enter. Earthly consciousness and heavenly awareness coexist, allowing me to be my true self in perpetual becoming.

My journey of healing found profound ground in empathy, particularly through the NYC Nonviolent Communication (NVC) community. They taught me that empathy is really just holding space for others. It is not problem-solving (although this can be a great sign of compassion). It is not sympathy (how can someone save a drowning man if they are also drowning?). Holding space is radical acceptance, a compassionate witnessing where we allow experience to unfold without judgment, where we create a container for transformation without trying to change or fix anything. The change and the fixing can come from the realm of consciousness, but it is the awareness that bonds us together and allows life processes to unfold. Perhaps this is what Einstein meant when he suggested that a problem cannot be resolved at the same level of consciousness that created it.

My encounter with Jung's autobiography was a revelation. I was struck by how little the book focused on external events, and how profoundly it illuminated the rich, complex inner landscape of human experience. It was a liberating moment—realizing that the most meaningful life occurs not in the external world of actions and achievements, but in the depths of internal reflection and continuous process.

Jung showed me that a true autobiography is not about exposing others or settling scores, but about exploring universal truths through personal experience. By diving deep into my own internal journey, I discovered that vulnerability becomes a gift. Everyone can potentially learn, grow, and see themselves reflected in honest introspection. The fear of potentially hurting others dissolved when I understood that sharing my inner process could actually be a form of collective healing.

Like Jung, I believe our personal stories are portals to universal truths—living, breathing processes of understanding and becoming.

The secret to a life worth living? To fully embrace the process. To watch the main character of your play as a partial, imperfect narrator, passionate yet unattached. To understand that life is not about reaching a final state, but about the continuous, beautiful unfolding of experience.

Will anyone read this? Perhaps. But more importantly, will we process together?