I have since added other forms of practice to my life. In yoga, I sit still, or move through poses. The ideal is to not think, but to be. A similar experience occurs when I write: the active mind steps back, the subconscious takes over. Writing practice means making space for the words to appear.
Sometimes when I shut my eyes and type the beginnings of piece-- with no intentions other than practice-- usable material appears. Even when I journal random thoughts, some higher shelf in my consciousness presents for me the occasional good idea. I don’t know how it happens. My guess is that every form of practice is like exercising muscle. Maybe not so glamorous-looking, but capable of producing positive things. For me that means stories, flexibility in my shoulders, and less fear.
What seems silly to me is that, despite my occasional grumblings, these benefits are always out there, as though reminding me, See what happens when you just keep practicing?
I'd love to know about the gifts you've gleaned from practice. Let me know...