All morning I lay down sentences, erase them, and try new ones. Soon enough, when things go well, the world around me dwindles; the sky out the window, the furious calm of the big umbrella pine ten feet away, the smell of dust falling onto the hot bulb in the lamp. That's the miracle of writing, the place you try to find--when the room, your body and even time itself cooperate in a vanishing act. Gone are the trucks rumbling outside, the sharp edge of the desk beneath my wrists, the unpaid electricity bill back in Idaho. It might seem lonesome but it's not: soon enough characters drift out of the walls, quiet and watchful, some more distinct than others, waiting to see what will happen to them. And writers come, too. Sometimes every fiction writer I've ever admired is there, from Flaubert to Melville to Wharton, all the books I've loved, all the novels I've wished I were talented enough to write.~Anthony Doerr (From Four Seasons In Rome)
This morning I printed out the first half of the rough draft of the novel I'm working on. Sometimes during the writing process, I come to stopping points and a hard copy can help me get a better idea of what portions need more work, what needs to go, and what I want to keep. I always am amazed that characters do seem to speak, to "drift out of the walls, quiet and watchful," as Anthony Doerr so eloquently describes this mystery. They often do "tell me" what they are feeling, what they long for, what they need. I come to love them. And the world does seem to vanish when I listen to them and detail their lives on the page. Lately, though, I've felt guilty that I love to write and spend a good deal of time at my desk. "What difference does it make anyway, the world so very tangled with grief and fires and war and senseless killing?"
I happened to read an article by Katie Bannon, a writer who provides online resources for authors, that helped to assuage my guilt. Ms. Bannon underscored that the reason writing (and I would add any art form) is necessary during this dark time in our culture, is that people need stories. And I would add, they need beautiful images. And comfort. And peace. Stories help us hang on, inspire us, and help us to connect with people and characters who support us when we're afraid or doubtful or anxious. Stories give us ideas about how to cope with uncertainty and unimaginable pain. Paintings and photography help us imagine a tranquil location, provide images that soothe our wounding, both seen and unseen. Poems and flower gardens help us remember and memorialize those who are gone. Lovely food prepared by artful, skilled hands bring strength to help keep us moving forward. One more step. Art brings solace for the spirit. Our great Creator God knows we need comfort and beauty and restoration. He gives us the sky and the sea and the sound of flutes and drums and harmonic voices. Songs that we sing over and over to disentangle our mourning. Even in the midst of a world on fire, He speaks and uses our collective creativity to bring healing.
Your voice matters. You matter.
I want to thank all of you for joining me here at the site week after week. It is such a joy for me to meet you here. For these next few weeks, I will be away. God's peace and grace to all of you. And love.
...she found herself drifting back through her past like someone wandering through an old house.~Anne Tyler (From French Braid)
It was the sight of the emerald St. Augustine grass springing up against the gray, weathered gate that brought it all back. The blazing sun, arctic white clouds and wide sky, too, that caused me to travel through time. I hadn't been to Texas in over a decade. Memories don't evaporate just because you move away. Location leaves an imprint. I relished being back. Remembered the cicadas singing in the early evening. The crepe myrtles, standing in almost every yard, like airy pink and white bouquets. Live oak and pine trees. Brick homes resembling the one I grew up in. It was as if I'd been welcomed by an old friend there, and I kept trailing my hand across her shoulders as a touchstone, reminding myself that I was home again.
Being in Texas made me think of the places I've lived, how they leave a faint watermark on one's life, and how it can feel more and more difficult to find comfort in a world that feels less and less like home.
Sometimes, though, it's the simplest things that bring solace, like that span of green grass. And surely we find home in people we know and love, the web of lines that appears around your husband's eyes when he smiles. Our routines. The fragrance of dish soap when we wash the plastic bowl that can't go in the dishwasher. Reading. The feel of a dog's silky ear. The sound of the newscaster's familiar voice. The pretty meteorologist. What dress will she wear this evening? She never repeats an outfit! And she's gotten highlights. The spicy bite on our tongues from "Taste China," the restaurant within walking distance of our home. The feel of the New Testament, its red leather cover cracked and peeling, that falls open to the book of John. A pot of sunflowers on the dining table. Blue bic pens sitting atop books in the study. The "Garden of Eden"-scented candle that perfumes the house. The hum of the clothes dryer. The sun gliding through the blinds, creating shadowy stripes on the wood floor.
Feelings of safety. The sigh of relief when we walk through the door and throw our coat over the chair in the entryway. Watermarks. Delicate. Indelible. Home.
In the tree cover above me there's a window.~Miranda Cowley Heller (From The Paper Palace)
The morning is unseasonably cooler. The sky is an eclectic composition of grays and pinks, blues and whites. Clouds drift by and the sun blazes through their gauzy covering at intervals. I love the sky. It's an ally who is always there for me. Like my grandmother was.
My grandmother sometimes wore a "mother's ring." I can't remember if there was a stone for each of her eleven children. I do recall as a child when she would grasp my hand. Sometimes the ring would pinch when she squeezed my hand. But I liked the feel of the metal against my skin. I'd take my other hand and trace the tiny stones in her ring with my index finger--little seeds of pale green and topaz, rose and opal. I'd rub my thumb across the blue veins on the top of her small, strong hand. She'd eventually loosen her grip and we'd sit for a while holding hands and watch Jeopardy (she knew a lot of the questions that were really answers) or listen to J. Vernon McGee on the radio.
Sometimes looking out my window in the mornings is like sitting with my grandmother. A place to be myself and garner energy for the day. To feel loved by God as a grandmother's warm, weathered hand can make you feel. No pressure to be anything other than a beloved child basking in her presence. Skies gray as flint or expansive as an ocean of pink. All is well in that sheltered place. It's like looking up at the trees and seeing a rectangle of blue sky through the branches. The sun pouring gold into your heart.
...the very way you've chosen to extend your kingdom: to those who become like trusting children.~Luke 10:21b (The Passion Translation)
In the dark night of the soul, I reach out to assure myself of things not seen. I must lay my hands on the side of the tree, must feel the prick of grass on my skin, must smell the dirt, must sing to myself a brave lullaby in order to sustain my hopes.--Scott Russell Sanders (From Staying Put)
There are months or years or seasons that feel unbearable. I have been tasked to think of some of those times that felt that way for me as I move through a 12-week study in the book by Julia Cameron entitled, It's Never Too Late To Begin Again. She asks the reader to divide their lives into five year increments, then asks several questions to consider as one remembers that time frame.
Questions like: "Whom did you form new major relationships with in the period?" "Where did you live?" "What was your community during this period? Was it satisfying, complicated, dramatic, supportive?" "What sound do you remember during this time?"
As I thought about some of Ms. Cameron's questions, I remembered my college years. Even having an amiable roommate and surrounded by other students, I was lonely. A major relationship with a boy had ended and I felt abandoned. There was pressure to keep up my grade-point average while working as a reporter for the college newspaper. I was the pledge trainer for my sorority house. I'd been elected to that position by some arm twisting. The anxiety of attempting to manage twenty plus young women with all the sorority regulations was overwhelming. Yet I remembered a "sound."
When I sat at my desk and wrote term papers and poems, I heard the rhythmic clattering as I pressed the keys of my manual typewriter. The ding of the bell acted as a legal stimulant. Writing was an anchor during that period of grief and uncertainty, life pressures. I can still see my young hands, my nails painted pink pearlescent, resting on the keys as I thought about my next sentence or word for a poem. A thick thesaurus lay open on the floor by my orange vinyl desk chair.
While some of these memories brought me sadness, I paused to consider my resilience during that time. While I didn't experience God's nearness, I never believed that He had forsaken me. My faith held. And my 19-year-old self did not quit. I forged ahead, believing somewhere deep inside myself that I had a good future. I had a belief that God was good, that He saw me. Loved me. I chose to trust Him, even though I couldn't see anything very promising about my life. Perhaps placing my fingers on the old typewriter was like singing to myself a brave lullaby, the echo of those keys resounding in my dorm room the sound of hope sustained. And writing remains an anchor these decades later. And that boy who disappeared now my husband.
Join with those who have never said: "Right, that's it. I'm going no further," because as sure as spring follows winter, nothing ever ends; after achieving your objective, you must start again, always using everything you have learned on the way. Join with those who sing, tell stories, take pleasure in life, and have joy in their eyes, because joy is contagious and can prevent others from becoming paralyzed by depression, loneliness and difficulties.~Paulo Coelho (From The Archer)
I'd driven a different route to avoid traffic. However, the side street that cut through downtown was still backed up with cars and I sat at a red light. I could see the building I used to work in and felt a pang of melancholy. I missed the work at times, the moments in the counseling room collaborating with patients who sought help for substance use disorders. I thought especially of one man who'd been assigned to me as a patient. I wondered how he was doing, as right before I retired, he'd moved on from the clinic, his life going well. I thought of the pain in his eyes when we'd first met, his traumatized heart filled with pain and suffering. Weighed down by unresolved grief. Lost to himself. Use of substances had been a way for him to ease the misery, but the effects of the substances were not working anymore and he wanted a way out. He'd bravely asked for help. We worked together for an extended time, and when we ended the counseling relationship, he'd made significant gains--he was no longer using substances to cope, was working a job he was good at. He'd developed a healthy support network. He was no longer lost.
The light turned green and as I drove away from the building, felt a sense of gladness that I'd been able to work there, the clinic a bower of strength and healing for so many. That night I dreamed.
In the dream, I saw the very patient I'd wondered about. He greeted me warmly, his smile an infinite ripple of joy. I smiled back at him, my enthusiasm to see him looking so well filling me with happiness. There were no words between us, but he lightly and briefly touched my shoulder as we parted ways. I awakened and immediately felt a sense of well-being. Yet I felt curious about his gesture of touching my shoulder. I prayed for insight. I sensed that God led me to think this way about the dream...The shoulder is symbolic of the parable in which Jesus leaves the 99 sheep to go search out the one who is lost. He places the sheep over His shoulder and carries the animal to safety. I wondered if perhaps the Lord was relaying to me that He enabled me to act as He would during that season in the counseling room with this admirable man. Perhaps I was able in some small way to embrace the man's lostness and carry him for a while until he reached safety.
I'd like to think that this is what the dream means. I thought about time too. All those sessions co-laboring together. Sometimes it seemed that nothing significant was occurring. There was crying and sadness. Sometimes return to use. Yet increment by increment there was change and healing--not only for him, but for me as well. It is no small privilege to watch a person find their answers. And then to be invited to walk with them. Allowed to be carried at times. I pray this man is well. That he is using everything he learned on the way and continues to grow and sing and tell stories and take pleasure in life. Joy in his eyes.