“Be kind to yourself.” Cheryl Klein, my editor, said to me recently as we discussed my revisions to a manuscript. Her words made me think about what it means to be kind to oneself in the process of writing and re-writing a book. To be kind to myself meant that in evaluating the work, I needed to take into account the circumstances during which it was created. I struggled with depression as I wrote and re-wrote the work. This meant that there was no way I could have an objective view of the work’s quality. I worked through most of it as if wrapped in cellophane – unable to “feel” whether the work was any good. Then, when I was done, I was overcome with a sense that I had not gotten it right, that I had missed the mark. I submitted the work to Cheryl anyway and it was like any other writing. Parts of it were perfect and parts of it needed more work. How I “felt” about the work was not important. I needed to be kind to myself. St. Theresa of Avila said about prayer: “When the wind blows we put up our sail and when it doesn’t we row.” Here was a work where it felt as if I had rowed most of the way. And there were so many days when it felt as if the boat could not move or even went in the wrong direction. To be kind to myself meant that I needed to accept those days and even to be grateful for the little rowing that I did. It was good just to stay afloat. Now that the work is almost done, the process almost complete, now more than ever I need to be kind to myself. I am grateful for others who can help me determine whether a work is ready for publication. I am grateful for the energy, the words, the insights and images that came, no matter how slowly. For the daily faith that kept me going. To be grateful for our offering, no matter how small, is to be kind to oneself.
April 1, 2011
February 27, 2011
Prayer
Of all the things that are hard to write about, this is one of them. It is so intimate, so private. I bring it up because there is a connection between it and writing. I’m going to say that prayer is the movement of the heart towards Mystery. Mystery can encompass a personal, loving Someone, but it need not. I define prayer broadly so as to include as much as possible. Prayer flings you out in hope and roots you down in presence. In some form or another, conscious or unconscious, it is part of writing. I don’t know what else to call this reaching out to the unknown. I don’t know why anyone would do it except as some form of prayer. This filling in and emptying out, what else can it be? We think of the word “consecrate” as a religious term and so it is, but it is religious in a human sense, a universal sense. We consecrate, we make sacred, what we carve out of our daily hours for another’s sake. The sacred is hollowed out by intention and attention. Who do you write for? And in your heart of hearts you know that what you do is always a response. Why this sense that someone calls? Where does it come from? Then there is this: the writing itself is a search for some unknown that you never reach. There are discoveries along the way, but still, you never get there. You walk in darkness, one word at a time. Somehow you trust in a meaning you do not yet see. You have faith that it is all worthwhile. Because what else can you do? The work is your prayer.
January 6, 2011
Beauty
It is both a searching and a being found. A going toward and a waiting for. A putting out and a bringing in. This thing called beauty. A building and a making, a creating that needs to happen every day. A stalking for traces of it. Glimpses in unexpected faces. It’s not just the red flower weighed with dew. It’s what’s behind it also. It’s not just the cloud noticed for the first time or forgiveness. It is the night and the distance between us. I keep a sharp eye for you. Even as time moves you, it can be a moment, just a moment. Radiance. The tree lit with fire. The pang. The heart pang. Exploding. No longer the need to question. No longer the need. I was found. You come and rest even as you fling. Stay. No, it is not possible. Yet, the memory and the new alertness. The practiced eye. The certainty. The gratitude. The Silence.
