To win one's joy through struggle is better than to yield to melancholy.~André Gide
We held our lanterns against the foggy morning, arms linked, our feet articulate along the pathway of our friendship. We hadn't seen each other for a few years--her irises still two perfect cerulean circles. Her smile a glowing center of affection.
Time pressed together as we spoke of the last years--grazing, grinding, rasping events and losses that could have devoured us, but didn't. We described each other as "bad ass" women and laughed. As we meandered down our historical trail, there was no doubt in my mind that we both had earned the title, and as I listened to the struggles my friend had transcended, a thousand rays of hope coursed through me with each heartbeat. Neither she nor I had yielded to melancholy.
We sit across from each other on a blue sofa in her new house. She has decorated the walls with paintings and photos that reflect her artist's soul, like spokes of sunlight that caper through the room. I am absorbed in the beauty. She breaks the comfortable silence between us and says, "I don't know if I really deserve this house." My mind at once leaps to "Yes, yes. You deserve every square foot. You deserve to relish and inhabit this sanctuary." I cannot fully express the intensity of my conviction and simply reply, "You deserve this house. You deserve it."
My friend shows me the different rooms of her home. It's as if I take my lantern and shine the light in every corner, each crevice a new delight. We walk to the third floor to an unfinished space. I detect the scent of potential. "I want to create an artist's studio--perhaps to paint or dance or write." Light pours from an unshuttered window as if to affirm this declaration, this prophecy of things to come.
I pack up my things to leave. I look out the vault of glass windows that overlooks a lake. The water offers up a pearly luminescence. A bird courses through the air. My friend says she walks outside on her deck each evening to look at the moon. We hug each other a long time. We've come to the end of our pathway for this day, the sunlight swallowing the fog, our lanterns unlit now. We will find each other again. Sooner maybe. Maybe not. No matter. We are timeless vessels--vessels of peace and grace for one another in this life.
The best things are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of God just before you.~Robert Louis Stevenson
I bent to tie my shoelaces, fingers stiff with cold. I had forced myself to go outside on the blustery, winter afternoon. I didn't hold out much hope that this walk in the frigid air would restore my motivation. For the past few weeks, I'd felt dulled regarding continuing to write, my love for the practice diluted. "Why bother?" I asked. I knew the answer already. "Because you love words. Because you love beauty. Because you enjoy encouraging others not to give up on their artistic pursuits. Because you know that the process of creating things brings healing and joy." I had grown fatigued and lonely, though. When I get lonely and tired along the artist's trail, I go back to nourishing locations where I know I'll find encouragement. I went back to Julia Cameron. All her works have inspired me, but I return again and again to her Artist's Way trilogy. This time I opened up the third book in the series: Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance.
The first page I turned to, I read a sentence I'd previously underlined. It took courage to allow myself to pursue something that I loved. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. The validation of that sentence felt like God's kiss on my cheek. It can feel easy to quit. I kept reading.
The following material I've plucked from the first chapter, Uncovering A Sense of Optimism. These reminders fueled increased motivation...maybe they will for you too.
As a writer, I have learned that good writing and good moods do not necessarily go together. On some of my worst days, the best work emerges. I try to love the process that I am in.
Many days, I simply place myself in front of the computer (today being one of them) and say to myself: "God, I showed up. Please make something with me."
I must write. I must walk. I must pray. I must content myself with small amounts of progress. Above all, I must not binge on drama and despair...I strive for a sense of optimism, a feeling that as small as I am what I am doing still matters in the scheme of things. For me, keeping things simple and pacing myself helps immensely. I can write one page. I can walk one block.
Like the crocus, the artist does not pause to ask if her work is timely or welcome. Critical reception will perhaps be chilly like an unseasonal snow but, like the crocus, the artist survives. For me, survival can evolve into satisfaction, because I have chosen not to quit.
I neared the end of my walk. I had ventured into a new part of town. I walked onto a boardwalk that allowed me a better view of the marsh. The chilly wind gusted, yet the sky arced deep blue overhead and reflected in the tidal waters. It was as if an artist had dipped her brush in paint and added a few drops of rich blue color to the marsh waters, and now the creek flowed like streams of gentian.
The dream came as inspiration. The dream came as comfort.
I sat with a six-year-old girl on a park bench. We turned toward each other and made eye contact. Light glinted from brown eyes. I read at once vulnerability and intelligence. She asked, "Did you read my book?" I shook my head, "No, I said, I want to, though. I understand that you are here today to receive an award for the book." "Yes, but that's not so important." She hopped from the bench and extended her hand to me. "You want to go for a walk? It's so pretty here; there's a lot to explore." Her enthusiasm magnetized me. I noticed, though, that this child appeared neglected, her hair tangled and uncombed. She wore a faded dress and her shoes showed scuff marks and worn out soles. Yet she exuded joyful expectation as children do, despite circumstances. I placed my hand in hers. What might I discover with this adorable child? Might I help her? Might she help me?
As I've pondered and prayed about the meaning of this dream, I concluded that the child is an aspect of myself. This child is a creative muse. She is the writer. She is the one who says, "Don't you just love how the sunlight falls on that grove of trees?" "Why look at that rose bush. It's erupting in pink," she exclaims. She's the one who begs, "Let's stay at the library just a little bit longer. You only want to run and pick up your books on hold. But let's browse. A book might find us...won't that be fun?" Her eyes light up when we plan a walk down by the ocean. "We might see some dolphins leaping out of the water today. Yay!" She's the one who suggests, "Let's stop on our trail walk at the swing by the marsh. That back and forth motion on the swing feels so free. I love it. And then we'll see the sunset too."
As it sunk in how I neglect her voice, I wept. Too often I say, "We must stick to the list. We've got a lot to do today. There's no time for the swing, for the sunset, for the extended stay at the library, for the dolphins." This child, however, is loving and forgiving. She coaxes, "We could do things differently. We could spend more time together. You'd have a chance to read my book." "What shall we do?" I ask. She pulls out her own concurrently wise and whimsical list...
~First, shorten the lists. They are too budensome, like rules that can't be kept.
~Plan a weekly date.
~Read as many books as we want.
~Go on lots of walks.
I suggest, too, that we get her a new outfit and a pair of beautiful leather shoes. A brilliant ring for her finger. A new haircut. She claps her hands. Yes! And I'll read my book out loud to you. You'll love the lyrical prose. You'll love every bit of it. I know you will."
What might your child be whispering to you? Picture him. Picture her.
Light rays streamed into the living room like a golden river. I stood amidst the beams, astonished. Delighted. Then I felt it. The pain brought me out of my reverie. All week my back hurt from an injury I sustained attempting to practice good exercise habits. The promise on the DVD cover stated, "Aging Backwards." The promise shattered on the first workout. Now aging forward, my best laid plans foiled.
The beauty of that light seemed to penetrate the architecture of my mind as I considered my response to this unexpected event. What if I received the pain as an opportunity to slow my pace? What would that look like?
I could walk without much discomfort. As I moved down the street, I was tempted to bemoan my decelerated steps. I prayed, "God, what does this slowdown mean?" In the chilled air, I heard leaves rustling, the intermittent cries of seagulls. When I reached the amber-colored waters of the tidal creek, I placed my hand on the trunk of the ancient oak, a friend. I could feel the ridges of its bark, even through my woolen gloves. As I looked out over the landscape, I noticed a hawk gazing, too, in the top branches of a pine tree. We two creatures shared a certain kinship in our musings.
In the still morning, my spirit suffused with peace, I sensed God speaking to me. "A slower pace can be something to savor. You'll have some time to read more, listen to those audible books you're enjoying now. You'll be able to watch that list of independent films you have on hold at the library. You can take more lesisurely walks and make observations like you've done today. You can tend to concentrate a little too much on lists and performance anyway, Priscilla. I'd like to see you enjoy life more. It's not about hurrying to the next task. I'd like to see you absorb many of the victories you've had over these months to keep writing and pursuing your book project. All is right. Enjoy my affection for you. Enjoy your freedom in me."
And so it goes. More slowly. I think of myself setting sail on that golden river enjoying the passage, wind speeds calm, my sails taut with the breath of His light and love.
When it's over, I want to say: All my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.~Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets, died this week. Her voice resonates with me as often her poetry reflects a deep connection with nature and love's resilience as we travel this side of eternity.
This week, too, I watched a BBC Masterpiece Theater production about the Brontë sisters, To Walk Invisible. The film reminded me that art is not magically produced inside a perfect environment. Art is created alongside the messiness of life and feeding the dog. Amid heartache and dreary weather, self-doubt and loneliness. Charlotte, Emily and Anne often stole out to the lavender-tinged moor next to their home for walks and to work out their insecurities and longings regarding submitting their novels and poems for publication. When their works were eventually published, each wrote under a male pseudonym. For years, no one knew that their work was created by a trifecta of female genius. The sisters were hidden. Invisible. Yet they kept writing, and this gorgeous literature manifested inside a life of poverty and the disconsolation of a brother who could not transcend the demise and disease of alcoholism. I wondered what the Brontë sisters could teach me about not giving up on creating art.
I believe the sisters kept a rhythm that art requires. In between scrubbing the floorboards and kneading dough, they would break from their chores, light a lamp and write at the kitchen table. When Charlotte questioned their aspirations to continue creating poems and stories, Anne said, "Oh, Charlotte, I never feel more alive than when I'm writing." They sat on the sunlit moor grasses and recited their poems to one another, finding time to connect with nature. They remained amazed, taking the world into their arms. And now who doesn't know Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey almost two centuries later?
I want to keep a rhythm, too, as the Brontë sisters did. I will go to the grocery store and wash the clothes. I will take a walk by the sea, the color of sapphires. And then I will go into my study, light a candle and write. I will rub my fingers over the latticework of veins, like delicate blue vines, when I hold my husband's warm hand. "I will write about this," I say. "I will write about love." I echo Anne's words," I never feel so alive as when I write." Oh, God, keep me married to amazement, taking the world into my arms. Writing things down.