We fall thus for the creations, but fail to feel the Creator, lost in the creations, by them consumed – even if it is in the garb of acknowledgement and appreciation for their novelty and utility. We rave about the inventions and discoveries, we extol the largeness of the profound literatures on all subjects, but we fail to acknowledge the largesse of Blank Page that allows itself to be inscribed with all the described, all that thus go on to form the literatures. What is there to tell? We take it for granted, knowing not in the form of Blank Page what have we been granted..

William Wordsworth said and still the words encourage, rendered immortal: “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” Heartfelt words, but requiring the Blank Page, and so acknowledged – deliberately or unbeknownst, overtly or covertly.

And yet, the Blank Page tells all, that is, all that we tell through it, all that is possible to transcribe and describe – and telling a lot more through the uninscribed, hiding in the bosom of its blankness. All that rages within, and all that looks to be erased, to all it gives itself and yet, never for once losing its purity, never tarnished by attachment to the words. It knows only to give, unreservedly: the giving total its mission and act of devotion.

The Mother says, “No words – acts.” (1) And a Blank Page, uncannily, mystically, seems to follow and adhere and thus only it is filled with the richness and largeness. As it gives itself, it tells the tale profound: Staying blank, it helps to fill the blanks. It lets us recover the lost, it helps to uncover the latent, lets us pour out all that that once outpoured get lost, the release mutual.

And as more and more it fills with, it fills with as is its bottom line eternal: “i am thine. Do what thou wilt. Compose or me decompose: with thy propositions or suppositions, with thy descriptions or prescriptions, with poetry or prose, whatever thou wilt to fill me with, fill, to the fullness of thy content, and even with thy discontent.”

And as so it gives, it echoes the Void, the All-containing Void, calling to the purity of thoughtlessness, the All-ness of the Blankness. Thus are we paged:

“Banish all thought from thee and be God’s Void.” (2)

O Blank Page, accept this, our Homage to thee. Thou have a lot to tell, a lot that can never be fully told, holding in thy bosom all, the told, the retold and the untold…, holding thyself up for man’s Pilgrimage through all.

Reference:

(1) The Mother. Words of the Mother – III, p. 175.

(2) Sri Aurobindo. Savitri, p. 537.