I very rarely do automatic writing. When I do, it tends to be around 3 am, when I finally give in to that insistent voice-in-my-head that nags me to grab the pen and pad I keep beside the bed.
I don’t bother to turn the light on, as I won’t be watching what I write anyhow. I keep my eyes shut and focus on feeling for when I get to the end of a line and need to start back again at the other side. I am aware of each word as I write it, but it’s very much ‘in the now’, so I don’t link it to those that come before or after and have no sense of the meaning of what is on the page until I turn on the light after the message has stopped.
Strangely, the writing very rarely runs together. Instead it comes in graceful arcs across the page.
I thought you might like to take a look at a meditation I was sent in this way one day recently, when pain was preventing me from sleeping:
Listen to the waves
They will tell you more than you can know in other ways.
They ebb and flow; the pain is the same.
The way your pain is displayed is like the waves – today a storm; later it will lay and calm.
Be not afraid of the pain. It has a point to make.
It tells you where you are in space. But that is not your only place.
In other ways you are letting go of space and places.
Drift into the no-space between places and time.
Here you will find the face of pain.
It has a kind face.
It lets you delve into the grace of every gesture and experience.
You will sway with the rays of a sun.
Gather the rays and spread them over your pain. They will calm and soothe it.
Sink into the way of being kind to your state.
Take time from time to play at being blessed.
You are cared for.