Years ago, I started a practice I call Meditative Ideation. It’s a way to quiet the mind and let creative ideas flow. Ideas show up for art, music, sculptures, automata. I’d write them down in a journal. Over time, the journal filled up. And then, something unexpected: sadness.

I realized I’d never bring most of these ideas to life. There aren’t enough hours. Not enough years.

Was it grief? Regret? Longing? Maybe all three. But mostly, it was the ache of knowing that every new idea is an unopened door. Every pursuit, a path that teaches something about yourself. What if I let go of an idea that could have changed my life? That’s the fear, that I’ll never know what it could have become.

The Japanese have a word, tsundoku. It’s the habit of collecting books and leaving them unread. It’s not about failure. It’s about the love of possibility. My growing journal of ideas? My creative tsundoku.

So, should every idea be made real? No.

In her book Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert says ideas are like living things, looking for the right person to bring them into the world. Just because I receive them doesn’t mean they’re mine to manifest. Some ideas are meant for someone else.

The key is to imagining myself as a host, sometimes offering an idea a tea and a seat, or sometimes simply waving it off with a smile.

The ones that stay? Those are the ones meant for me.

1