First Thought, Best Thought
Commiting to Yes (And…)
First Thought, Best Thought was the title of a book of poetry by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche and a phrase he used to describe engaging fresh mind in any creative endeavor. Last week, we discussed the idea of a fresh start—how returning to the breath brings us into the present, allowing our next step to be free of past attachments. In this sense, first thought is the moment the mind comes to a creative inflection point.
However, first thought is not the first thought we notice. By the time we become aware of our thinking, we are generally enmeshed in a point of view shaped by past experience. This natural function of the mind contextualizes our present based on what we’ve learned, which, while useful, can block true creative exploration.
There are two aspects of the mind we can consider here: the fresh, free-flowing mind and the compounded mind that analyzes and categorizes based on prior knowledge. The compounded mind refines what it already knows, strengthening established neural pathways. Meanwhile, the fresh mind, in a purely neurological sense, forges new synaptic connections—an activity that excites the brain in an entirely different way.
Square One and the Power of Space
When Trungpa Rinpoche developed his Dharma Art course, the very first class began with students sitting in a circle around a blank white sheet spread on the floor. This experience, which he called Square One, was designed to immerse students in the energy of clear, open space. The entire premise of Dharma Art—creating authentic expression within one’s environment—relied on the understanding that Square One was completely empty.
Emptiness is often misunderstood. To the materialist, ego-driven mind, emptiness feels like voidness, a loss of reference points. When we are not preoccupied with acquiring, ignoring, or resisting external things, the ego panics, interpreting the lack of engagement as nonexistence. Yet, space—like the vastness surrounding our planet—is filled with energy and potential. In tantric traditions, space is considered the feminine principle, the womb of all creation.
Sitting around the white sheet, the mind naturally throws up objections. It searches for past experiences to contextualize the moment, and when it fails, it fabricates fantasies based on conditioning. Anything to avoid accepting the pure potential of space. This can feel agonizing, especially when we believe we are supposed to create something. But did the universe know what it was creating when it began?
The Sacred Moment of Not Knowing
When faced with uncertainty, the ego scrambles to define, control, or solve what is before it. This is a noble instinct, but it is not the act of creation. Many spiritual traditions hold the moment of not knowing as sacred. The I Ching describes this as the moment just before the sacrifice, when the practitioner silently opens to the divine. This pause—this waiting—creates space for inspiration.
But what is inspiration? What is channeling? What does it mean to create without the conscious mind dictating the process? When we reach our highest potential and then simply open in silence, we are not controlling what comes next; we are making space for it to emerge. The next impulse may arise internally or from the environment. In theatrical improvisation, it might be prompted by a partner’s line. If we already know the line—as in scripted theater—we strive to make our response feel spontaneous. But in true improvisation, we do not know the prompt beforehand, so our response emerges authentically, as if it were a pure first thought.
Improvisation, Acceptance, and Flow
Naturally, even improvisation has guidelines to sustain the creative flow. The most well-known rule is Yes, and…—the principle of accepting whatever is presented and responding intuitively.
Our habitual responses to the world tend to fall into three categories: acceptance, resistance, or avoidance. Improvisation shifts this toward acceptance. The second rule, No Denial, ensures that energy continues moving forward. For instance, if my scene partner says, Good morning, Doctor, I should not reply, I’m not a doctor! That would break the flow. Instead, I might say, Good morning, Mrs. Smith. Your dog is doing very well and can be picked up today. This maintains the reality we are creating while still allowing space for personal agency.
Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art was a laboratory for discovering pure impulse and response in the creative process. It was not meant for performance. To cultivate a coherent flow, Trungpa employed three guiding principles: Heaven, Earth, and Human. A response could offer a larger perspective (Heaven), set the ground for what is happening now (Earth), or engage another person emotionally (Human).
Just as the universe created itself, humanity may have evolved to perceive, feel, and interact with that unfolding creation. When we gaze at the night sky, we see a seemingly static and reliable expanse. Yet, in reality, it is dynamic and ever-changing. The stars we see may no longer exist as they appear; their light has taken years, even millennia, to reach us. The sky is a snapshot of creation in motion. When we quiet the mind—acknowledging our thoughts but resting in the space between them—we create the silence needed for inspiration to arise.
Creativity as a Way of Being
Of course, not every first thought is brilliant. That’s why the Dharma Art approach values process over performance. What matters is accessing the pure moment of space and noticing what naturally arises—before conditioning encumbers it. This process mirrors the way we engage with structured and unstructured elements in life.
A society functions through rules and norms, yet within that structure, we can live creatively. We don’t need to force ourselves to conform to rigid formulas, but we also don’t have to reject structure altogether. Instead, we can relate to societal frameworks in a way that allows for meaningful interaction while maintaining creative freedom.
In art, we see this dynamic play out in genre conventions. A procedural or romance novel follows a predictable structure (Earth), whereas an experimental novel unfolds in real time (Heaven). The most compelling works balance these elements, engaging readers with familiarity while surprising them with discovery. Similarly, we can author our own lives—grounded in reality yet open to the unknown.
This brings us back to the blank space. Try this experiment: Pause. Let your mind rest. Instead of steering your thoughts toward a desired outcome—especially one shaped by preconceived notions of what meditation or creativity should be—allow yourself to simply be. Notice the first authentic impulse that arises.
If you commit to Yes, and…, you can take the next step toward creating your piece, your day, or your life.