Disheartening statements came at me like bullets. The words were not aimed directly at me. The dark reports came from people I love and admire. "I am constantly filled with self-doubt," he said. "The workplace has become a jungle. I feel left behind inside the competition. Some of my colleagues take Adderall to stay energetic enough to keep up. I've seriously thought about trying to get a prescription from my doctor." Another person told me that she had made the brave decision to pursue a graduate degree. In the process she said that a professor from the esteemed university advised her to abandon her entire portfolio and begin again. The collection of her writing contained years of artistic efforts. I became filled with anger at the censors that appear in peoples' lives--the criticism and expectation of perfectionism searing, burning. How do we cope? What brings relief?
On a walk I listened to an artist performing a piano improvisation. I felt captivated by his abiity to create a piece wholly beautiful with no sheet music. The notes flew from his fingers. I stopped to look at the video of him playing and noticed that he had a look of joy on his face, his strong hands agile, his body at times leaning into the rhythms and flowing chords he produced. As I continued to listen, I thought how God is like the master improvisationalist on the keyboard of our lives. He understands that we get hurt by the censors in our lives. He knows the pain the caustic remarks can bring. He knows that we can get stuck when the voices of darkness become too loud. I believe He might say something like, "No striving necessary. Let me sit down at the keyboard and improvise. I know you by name. I'm aware of the stressors you face. I hate the toxicity too. Be encouraged. I have the ability to bring all of the musicality of your life to the surface. Trust me. Your song is not determined by the censors. Your theme music is determined by my goodness, my wisdom, my favor and my grace toward you. Let me make you joyful. Receive my creativity for your life. The awareness of your brilliant song will make you dance again."
A few nights ago I dreamed I'd taken a bus to an Italian city. I didn't recognize the location, but I noted an array of orange tiled roofs atop ochre-colored houses, persons greeting each other in Italian. "Buongiorno." Vespas purred down narrow streets. I heard the occasional startling honks of cars as they wound through traffic. I smelled faint traces of car exhaust. I stood on a bridge overlooking the town, the hustle and bustle at once thrilling me, as I had a hunger and curiosity to explore, yet simultaneously felt panic that I did not know where I was. I didn't know which way to go. Before I took another step, an exceptionally tall man emerged by my side and said, "I am here to guide you to all the best parts of this city." He offered me his hand. I briefly hesitated, yet had a hunch that he would be an authentic helper. I placed my hand in his and immediately felt the comfort of his warm grasp.
When I awakened, the concept of "emerging" entered my thoughts. In the dream, a "guide" arrived at precisely the moment I needed clarity to find my way. Before even a prayer for help had formed on my lips, support emerged.
In April of this year, Z Publishing House discovered some of my writing online. They approached me about making a submission. I was in Italy with Giovanni at the time I received the request. I dashed off a quick message thanking them for their interest. When we returned, only a week remained for me to submit before I missed the deadline. When I hit the "send" key, I thought about how rare it is for a publishing company to approach a writer. How extraordinary it is for an author's writing to emerge on the internet sea. (A book is submitted to Amazon every five minutes.) I thought about the myriad rejection emails I'd received over my years of writing. Even though the publisher had contacted me, I had no expectation of hearing from them again.
To my utter surprise, I found an email in my box in July. Both the fiction and non-fiction pieces I'd submitted were accepted for publication in two different anthologies. I had been selected as an emerging author for South Carolina. The non-fiction piece is an excerpt from my manuscript that is in process now. The narrative outlines a dream that emerged when Giovanni and I were traveling in Barcelona several years ago. The dream was pivotal for continued healing and recovery from self-doubt and shame. The fiction piece is a short story that emerged when Giovanni and I were in Italy in April. We had hoped to spend a day exploring the Amalfi coastline, but were hemmed in by rain and fog. We stayed in our hotel room. A story rose to the surface.
This week I had the honor of reading aloud an excerpt from my novel with a group of women. A young woman approached me after the discussion and said, "You've inspired me. I want to write a book. The story is inside of me, and I want to get it out. What do I do?" My mind raced. There was a part of me that wanted to say, "The process is lonely and difficult; you probably want to rethink this goal." Then I thought of my dream and said to her, "The first step is 'getting on the bus,' so to speak. That means writing. Write something every day. Do not censor yourself. Get your story on the page. This process is highly pleasurable. You will be amazed at the beautiful location that bus ride will take you when you write consistently. After you get something on the page, your "guides" will emerge. People who loyally support you and your writing. You'll know who they are. They will help lead you. These people provide wise and gentle feedback. They are not jealous of your pursuits. They champion your efforts and believe in your story. These kind guides are provided by God. God is committed to you finding your way-- to the process of your clear, resonant voice emerging and singing over a world that needs a melody."
A note to my readers:
Thank you for supporiting me. You are my kind guides who cheer me on. If you have interest, you can find the fiction and non-fiction anthologies my works are featured in here: South Carolina Emerging Authors
"I just want peace," he said. "My life is full of anxiety that I can't shake." Behind the silver-framed glasses his eyes glistened with tears, youth reflected in the smooth brown cheeks. Dark tendrils of hair hung around his face, loosened from the man bun he sported. He talked to me in a quiet fury of words. He was in my office for an appointment to test for HIV. I often hear words from people that have been compressed for long periods of time--feelings and issues that are seemingly unrelated to having their finger pricked for the blood sample and assessing vulnerabilities for exposure to the HIV virus. He went on. "This world is too chaotic--climate change, the crazy politics, pressure to work long hours. I want to be like you. You seem so calm." All of this in one brief encounter. A man I'd never met. A man I'd likely not meet again.
Little did this individual realize how well I could relate with his emotions. If I appeared calm, my demeanor was a result of God's grace in my life. The day this lovely man came to my office, I'd had an internal meltdown of sorts--bemoaning many of the same feelings of anxiety--pressure at work to perform, the polarized political environment; global agony with tsunamis and tornadoes, floods and fires. "God," I prayed. "How do I manage these feelings of helplessness and panic?"
The next day I listened to a podcast by Graham Cooke, a virtual spiritual mentor. Mr. Cooke recommended this exercise. He suggested imagining oneself at a crossroads. One direction points toward the negative feeling that is present. "Anxiety," I identified. Then he said to imagine another sign pointing toward the opposite direction. "What would that be?" I thought that my opposite direction would be the concept of "peace." Then Mr. Cooke said, "Imagine walking in that new direction, then standing there in that place. Not moving from it. Not going backward toward the negative location. Once you are firmly situated in the new territory, imagine turning on a spigot and allowing cool waters of God's refreshment to flow over you. All you need to do is receive."
I practiced the exercise. I experienced God's peace. My mind calmed. The fretfulness and worry subsided. I remembered the promise of Jesus in John 14:27: I am leaving you with a gift--peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid (New LIving Translation).
I thought, too, that experiencing God's peace is not something I strive to do. It's more about a decision I make regarding what direction I choose, then staying in that place to receive--opening my heart and mind to God's rivers of mercy, kindness, goodness, favor, wisdom, peace and joy, All of these riches come pouring down from Him in refreshment and restoration. Why would I stay in the arid geography of anxiety and fear when I can choose a different direction and make myself vulnerable to His streams in the desert?
Yes, glorious things! What wonder! What joy! May we be refreshed as by streams in the desert.~Psalm 126:2 (New Living Translation)
I
She sat in her pickup, the driver's side window down, hair blown back from her face. The first traces of tropical storm gusts stirred the air as the state anticipated the effects of Hurricane Florence. I noted a pink neon stripe zagged through the woman's dark bangs. The color reminded me of those frozen concoctions sold in gas station convenience stores, that stain one's tongue disturbing colors. I stood on the bank of the tidal creek where she had parked her truck. We made eye contact, waving simultaneously. The young woman smiled and nodded, then went back to her musing as did I, our brief connection a mercy as we awaited the storm's approach.
The woman's bright shot of pink in her hair, and her wide smile comforted me, and I began thinking of the concept of mercy as I walked. I remembered the encounter I had with my six-year-old granddaughter a few days prior. We'd been talking about how we enjoyed writing as a way to capture moments of our lives. She picked up her journal and said, "You know what I write in my journal is just for me to read." I responded, "I understand. My journal writing is the same--only for me." Then she said, "But I'll read you a page in mine." I said, "I'd like that very much." She began:
"One day I went with my mommy to visit a lady. When we got there, and I saw the lady, I realized she had a mustache. I really, really, really wanted to say something." Then my granddaughter looked up from reading and said, "I had to hold back my words. I wanted to say something so bad." She continued: "I decided not to say anything, though, because it could have hurt the lady's feelings. I didn't want to do that."
While on some level, the journal entry was funny, the story reflected a tenderness of heart as well. At six, my granddaughter had learned the art of mercy.
As I continued my walk, I was startled by a Great Blue Heron. I stopped and took several steps back. The bird was about four feet tall, its feathers the color of pewter, an orange beak. The lanky creature was crossing the road to another part of the tidal creek, its legs like black pipe cleaners, the steps deliberate and unrushed. There was something that arose in me--that caused me to want to give the bird all the space it needed to get to safety. While the heron appeared resolute and confident as it made its way to the other side, I knew the wild bird was vulnerable in the open. I watched until the bird made it safely to the other side, until its gray body became camouflaged in the grasses near the creek.
Sometimes I believe God does this for me. Steps back and offers me plenty of room when I take a risk, or when I'm in a vulnerable place in life. Watches me until I get to the other side, his merciful eye upon me.
The day is breathtaking really, the wind gusts feel refreshing. The sky almost seems filled with mirth, layers of clouds creating white wisps against a cerulean backdrop. The sun is warm. An onslaught of rain is coming, and the region faces uncertainty. Like children, hands atop each other before a big game, our community curates a unified spirit, practicing the art of mercy as we are vulnerable, out in the open.
My study is fragrant with the heady scent of a candle burning brighter than my computer screen. The name attached to the candle is "Fearless." That's the reason I bought the candle in the first place. Its title inspired bravery, dissuading me from allowing fear to reign. I remember one of the first times in my life when I decided against fear. I'd just turned eight. My mother had purchased a skateboard for me. The wooden board had miniature purple feet painted on its shellacked surface. Initially, I didn't believe I'd be able to learn the skill of skateboarding. I'd seen boys in the neighborhood performing tricks on their boards, and these stunts looked too difficult for me. I decided to try. I fell again and again. However, there were brief times when I glided down sidewalks and felt the thrill of moving faster than I could run, when I experienced the exuberance of improving my skill. By summer's end in 1963, I'd accomplished my goal--I skated down the tallest hill on my street without falling, the neighborhood boys watching and gasping in surprise that I'd done it.
When I thought of this memory, I asked myself what helped me transcend the feelings of fear. I believe it was first a confident expectation that I'd eventually learn the skill. This positive mindset then provided the ability to transcend the fear of failure and and increased my confidence to practice each day, tolerating the messiness and uncertainty of learning something new.
Fast forward fifty-five years and very little has changed regarding the need for me to embrace fearlessness.
A few weeks ago, I learned that the format in which I usually publish my book projects is no longer available. I'd felt hopeful that I was in the home stretch with the manuscript. I had written the rough draft, made multiple changes to polish and correct mistakes, sent the pages off to the editor, then implemented his suggestions and revisions. I was ready to go to press. Then the major roadblock. I wanted to abandon the project. It felt too hard to go on. But I'd come so far. Soon after learning of the changes at the publishing company, I rummaged through my purse looking for my phone. The interior of my handbag was messy with pens and too many lipstick tubes, myriad lists. Out of curiosity, I unfolded a crinkled piece of paper I'd found in a zippered pouch. I'd enumerated some of the spiritual coping tools I believed I was getting better at practicing. I read:
I am getting more practice in embracing stillness, quietness and God's peace, especially when I feel anxious or afraid.
I am learning to practice "pressing in" when life feels too hard.
I am practicing, more and more, to receive good things from God--expecting His favor and grace in chaos or circumstances I wouldn't choose.
I am getting better at rejoicing in all things.
I am learning to be comforted by the Holy Spirit when life or people or relationships feel awkward and sticky. When I want to run.
I am getting practice in expecting empowerment from God, decreasing self-pity.
I am learning to increasingly live inside the goodness of God.
After perusing this list, I thought about my eight-year-old self deciding to walk away from fear. To choose the braver thing. To practice. To learn. To push forward. To eventually master the hill.
I will do the same now with the book project. I will keep practicing my spiritual coping tools. I will be a woman that goes to the shore each day, scanning the horizon knowing the ship of God's provision has set sail. It's just a matter of time before I unpack the bounty, not only to finish another book, but also to live in the confidence and expectation of His great strength.