Our senses by themselves are dumb. They take in experience, but they need the richness of sifting for a while through our consciousnss and through our whole bodies. I call this 'composting'. Our bodies are garbage heaps: we collect experience, and from the decomposition of the thrown-out eggshells, spinach leaves, coffee grinds, and old steak bones of our minds come nitrogen, heat, and very fertile soil. Out of this fertile soil bloom our poems and stories. But this does not come all at once. It takes time. Continue to turn over and over the organic details of your life until some of them fall through the garbage of discursive thoughts to the solid ground of black soil.
Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg