A couple inches of dust coat my grandmother’s cherry writing
desk in the corner of my bedroom; I haven’t yet replaced the dead battery in
the clock that sits next to my journal; lint litters the brown sheepskin in the
rocker where I usually sit. Since starting my MFA in writing program, I’ve
shortened—or many days skipped—my morning writing meditation.
A poetry reading a few weeks ago, though, nudged me
back. More specifically, poet
Holly Hughes spurred me with meditations and exercises in The Bell and the Pen, the book that she co-authored with Brenda
Miller. Thumbing through it at Holly’s reading, I knew I had found kindred
spirits in its authors:
As writers who have incorporated
spirituality as a part of our lives,
we
have found that writing, in and of itself, can be a powerful form
of
contemplation…we also believe that contemplative practice can
strengthen
one’s writing; the two work synergistically to support
and
reinforce each other.
Those lines, and others in
The Bell and the Pen, have sent me again to that corner in my
bedroom. Today, after I blew off dust on the votive candle and lit it, I
noticed something tucked under the stack of books teetering on the desk.
It’s a tiny accordion book that I made
in 2007 while a student at
Pendle Hill
Quaker Study Center.
Its folds, twists, and turns symbolize the way leadings have
unfolded for me. The hand-written text includes some of the new understandings
I came to during the Pendle Hill course, “Discerning Our Calls.”
On one page I printed a quote by James
Hillman, a Jungian psychologist:
You
have to give up the life you have
to get the life that’s waiting for you.
Those words had greeted me one afternoon when I entered a
room for a time of worship-sharing. I can still remember the burn in my belly
when I read them. Just as I had thought – to be faithful, I have to give up all
of the good and beautiful things in my life. My stomach churning as I tried to settle into the
quiet of the room, another sensation prickled. What IS the world that is waiting for me?
I no longer can recall any of the sharing by others in the
group that day. But at some point in that hour of expectant listening, the
churning in my gut eased, and I heard what I was to give up. The life I have to
give up is a life lived in fear.
Fear of loss, of failure, of disappointing others. Fear of
making mistakes, being wrong.
I also heard that the life that is waiting for me—the life
that Spirit wants for me (and all of us)—is one of joy.
I’ve made some progress giving up worry and anxiety about
those things I can’t control. I’ve gotten more clear about the dangers of
trying to please everyone. And I remain certain of God’s desire for us to
experience joy. But just like the dust on my writing desk, fear creeps in when
I allow the busyness of life to keep me from regular times of contemplation.
I’m grateful for being pulled back to my pen, my hand-bound journal, the
flicker of a candle, and the quiet. I have more giving up to do, more life that
is waiting for me.
Lately, I’ve been reading a craft book by Elizabeth J. Andrew - Writing the Sacred Journey - The Art and Practice of Spiritual Memoir. My copy looks a little ragged. I’ve turned down corners of about half of the pages with exercises I’ll use in my writing practice. I’ve underlined sections that speak to me, such as Andrew’s belief that “spiritual memoir is a form unto itself…a genre in which one’s life is written with particular attention paid to its mysteries.” She also describes well my experience that “…the writing itself becomes a means for spiritual growth.”
