National Day on Writing - Why Do You Write?

I haven't written a blog post in eons . . . I blame it on vacation, earthquake aftermath and the fact that I actually have been doing a lot of writing and transcribing of old writing.  More about that another day though. 

This is just a brief post to celebrate the National Day on Writing.  I wouldn't have known it was the National Day on Writing if I hadn't received an e-mail from the delicious She Writes website (a feast of inspiration, information and community for women writers).  But now that I have been made aware, I'm taking up their invitation to answer the question, "Why do you write?" in 140 characters or less.  Surpisingly, my answer came quickly and concisely:

I write to make sense of the seen, shine light on the unseen, and breathe life into the imagined.

So why do you write?

Pieces of the Puzzle

One of the things my Aunt Sharon loves is working jigsaw puzzles.  When she's over for holiday gatherings or family dinners, after we've eaten and watched the requisite Elvis DVD, I'll set up a TV tray and get out one of the Disney or Peanuts puzzles we keep for her on a closet shelf in the den.  Sharon is what some people would now call "intellectually disabled."  Our family tends not to use that term because despite having autistic tendences from a bout of encephalitis as a toddler and then sustaining a traumatic head injury a year or so later that left her brain damaged (and at the time labeled mentally retarded) there's nothing wrong with her intellect.  Sure-- each Thanksgiving we need to prompt her to turn her knife over because she can't figure out which side to use to cut her turkey, but in many respects she's more on the ball than many so called "normal" people. 

During one of her regular progress meetings a few years ago, the head of her vocational program mentioned what a good worker Sharon was and said they'd like to give her more responsibility than just stuffing envelopes or sorting nuts and bolts, the sort of tasks that sheltered workshop participants often do.  As the counselors and my mother began to discuss this, Sharon piped up and asked, "What does responsibility mean?"  It was explained to her that in this case, it meant getting a larger volume and more complex tasks at work, to which she replied, "Sharon does NOT want any more responsibility."  More work for the same pay-- who can blame her?

Sharon also has a great sense of humor and delights in making my brother and I laugh.  One evening as we were leaving a crowded restaurant my parents had gone ahead and C. and I were preparing to walk our aunt out to the car.  As we got up from the table she leaned over to us and, in a conspiratorial whisper said, "Okay now don't act suspicious."  She then proceeded to walk out of the restaurant flapping her arms like a chicken and squawking, "I'm a baby bird!" at the top of her lungs.  If you think about it, it was ingenious.  The best way to not act suspicious is to make yourself conspicuous and she certainly did that.  Although to this day we don't know why it was important to her that we not look suspicious. 

It used to be when Sharon worked a puzzle, if she came across a piece that didn't quite fit,she'd spit on it to soften the edges and forcibly shove it into the place she thought it should go.  She saw this as a great short term solution, although in terms of the big picture and the fate of the puzzle piece in question, it wasn't exactly ideal.  I was thinking today as I was taking a shower (I often do my best thinking in the shower or bath tub) about experiences in my life where I've felt like a puzzle piece that's been manipulated to fit a certain space or place.  Sometimes it's been an uncomfortable process from the beginning but I put up with it because of my own insecurities and need to fit somewhere.  At other times, it seems okay at first.  There are pieces of me that slide fairly easily into place, often when there's enough wiggle room so that I don't bump up against anything that will jar me out of my naive complacency.  Eventually, however, I begin to look around and notice that I'm not quite in sync with what's happening around me and I realize that, in terms of the big picture, I'm not where I belong.

In all these experiences though, I try to hold on to the lessons I can take with me from the experience-- even if it's as simple as "this isn't the job . . . relationship . . . breath-takingly gorgeous but terribly uncomfortable pair of shoes" for me.  The via negationis is a wise, although often under appreciated teacher. 

All the above rambling comes not only out of my musings in the shower but also from an experience I had a few weeks ago of writing and preaching a sermon for the first time in many many years.  One of those "I don't quite fit" pieces of my life occurred shortly after I graduated from seminary.  Although there were many positive lessons I got from earning a graduate degree in theology, the via negationis taught me that parish work wasn't for me.  While I tried to figure out what was for me, I ended up working part-time in a small church where, in addition to my programmatic duties, I was asked to preach several times a year. 

I may feel like someone is playing jai lai in my stomach in a social gathering where I don't know anyone but I'm pretty Zen before I get up in front of a crowd of people be it in a classroom, on a retreat, or even in a pulpit.  When that was a regular part of my life, I'd usually decide a week or two ahead of time on the text I'd be using, ponder my message until about 11 pm Saturday evening and stay up for the next few hours putting some thoughts on paper, generally in the form of an outline or bullet points.  My preaching style is definitely more conversational than rhetorical and I quickly learned that if I didn't have a narrative written out, I was more comfortable and effective engaging an audience as there wasn't the tendency to slip into simply reading the words on the paper. 
This time, however, it was different.  Maybe it was because these past few years between my personal work and my school work I've mainly been writing words to be read by people's eyes rather than heard by their ears.  Or maybe it was because I was invited to preach at a church that I was completely unfamiliar with.  Whatever the case, I struggled to get my thoughts down on paper and spent a lot of time spitting on them and trying to make them fit, which was an exercise in futility. 

After several cups of tea and repeated tapping on the delete key, I finally resorted to my old standby of pulling out a pad of paper and a pen and drew more than wrote what I wanted to convey.  Being a visual person, sometimes the linear-ness of writing on a computer just doesn't do it for me.  When I can feel the pen in my hand and bring color and shape into organizing my thoughts, it's a more organic process and in turn makes me more open to the energy and flow.  Then I can see the big picture and play with what words I have and how they fit together.  I know some people are very organized and regimented about their writing (character studies, plot outlines, etc.) and that works for best for their creative process.  I sometimes envy those people because it seems like such an efficient and productive way of operating but it would take a lot of spit to make me fit into that writing model and in the end, I'm sure what I'd produce would just end up soggy, peeling, grey and discarded, much like some of those puzzle pieces my aunt tried a little too hard to make fit. 

PS - The title of my sermon was Reading and Writing Our Stories-- about how poetry can help us reflect on and shape our lives.  Here's the link:  http://www.universalist.org/archives/000679reading_and_writing_our_stories.html#more

Lessons from a Neon Spider

Recently I took advantage of a gorgeous summer day to spread a blanket in my backyard and spend a few hours working in what I call my "summer office."  Armed with a stack of papers, my favourite pink Sharpie fine point pen and a lap top, my intention was to knock out the revisions on an essay I needed to complete before I left for my mini-vacation in Sin City (which last week they should have temporarily renamed Nap City or Read a Book City or Moan Because We're Visiting the One Week in the Year When it's Cloudy and Humid and I'm Not Getting Any Sun City-- but that's another story). 

Anyway, I spread out my Black Watch fleece blanket and was getting ready to uncap my editing pen when I noticed a speck of a neon green spider scuttling across the dark plaid.  She moved with purpose and as I'm not one of those human beings who is skittish around creepy crawly things, I scooted back to make more room for her to travel as I watched her journey.  When she got to the edge of the blanket, the spider hopped onto a blade of grass and clung to the underside with six of her eight legs as the other two were busy creating.  When the silvery thread she was spinning was long enough for her liking, she threw it to a frond about three inches away and hurried across the bridge she'd built.  She reached her destination and began spinning again, this time attaching one end of the silk to the blade of grass and then jumping into the breeze, letting the thread carry her another few centimeters across the lawn where she landed on yet another piece of grass. 

The spider continued to make her way across about a yard of yard, sometimes following a silk road she created while at others, jumping into the void and allowing the wind to carry her forward.  Eventually she made it to the base of the dogwood tree where she disappeared into the ivy encircling its trunk.

The Irish monk St. Columbanus said, and I'm paraphrasing here, if you want to know the Creator, you must first understand creation. Watching that day glo spider spin and soar made me realize that there are times, in my writing and in other areas of my life, when I feel like I need to construct bridges-- make outlines, establish safety nets, weave intricate webs to get to the next step on the journey.  There are other times, however, when I let go and jump, trusting that the ruah-- the wind or Spirit-- will take me where I need to go. Knowing when to spin and when to soar is the issue.  Watching the spider, I couldn't see any discernable rhyme or reason to which method she chose.  I finally just chalked it up to simple spider instinct.  Maybe learning to trust my own instincts was the lesson creation had for me that day.  Now to figure out what that has to teach me about the Creator . . .

Musings on Ordinary Time

Ordinary is largely a matter of perception. The other night, for example, was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday night for me.  I sat for a while in the nave of a glorious cathedral, listening to the dulcet strain of harp music and the shuffling of stocking feet slide across a canvas labyrinth.  Then I stood for a few minutes and noticed the way the light filtering through the stained glass turned the surrounding limestone from a fiery orange to a rosy red as a cloud passed over the sun.  I moved on to a quiet side chapel where I sat in a rickety wicker and wood chair as a gifted healer, a true channel for Light and Love, placed her hands on my head and surrounded me with the pulsating energy of prayer.  Finally, I descended into the crypt where I spent the next hour with a group of about thirty or so people reading, discussing and, perhaps most extraordinarily, writing poems about the ordinary. 

Part of my work for the past few years has included leading programs that use seasonal poetry as a vehicle for reflection.  Last night's program, exploring the poetry of summer, focused on the idea of the ordinary for, according to the church calendar, we're in the season of Ordinary Time. Without the anticipation of Advent, pageantry of Christmas, stripping away of Lent, and drama of Easter, the days of Ordinary Time seem, well ordinary.  They plod on, one flowing into another.  The liturgical color of ordinary time is green, which for those of us in the northern hemisphere is a pretty ordinary color at this time of year.  Summer is in full swing and to quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "Earth's crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God."  German poet, mystic, healer and artist Hildegard of Bingen wrote about this fire in creation as viriditas-- the green-ness, vitality, fecundity that is an attribute of the divine, present in all creation. Barrett Browning goes on to write in her lengthy poem Aurora Leigh that only those who see recognize this viriditas in creation pause to take off their shoes, acknowledging the holy moment.  For those who are unaware it's business as usual.

This idea of seeing-- being aware, awake, in the moment-- is a great lesson we can learn from Ordinary Time.  For when we are awake and fully present in the moment we more easily recognize the extraordinary in the ordinary. 

The poems I chose for Tuesday's program focused on this idea of seeing-- as the task of the poet (Denise Levertov's Looking, Walking, Being and Mary Oliver's The Summer Day), as a challenge when our mind wanders (The Moment by Billy Collins) and how seeing can reveal the rich beauty in an ordinary object we often take for granted (Pablo Neruda's Ode to Tomatoes).  We began with a quick-writing activity by writing a modern cinquain on the subject of "ordinary" and then sharing what images or ideas came out of that.  After reading and talking a bit about the poems I selected, we shared in smaller groups a time we recalled when we were in the moment and paying attention, like Mary Oliver's example in her poem.  From there, I gave people a measly ten minutes (that's all the time we had left) to write a poem of their own, suggesting they pick an ordinary object and try writing an ode a la Neruda or taking an ordinary situation and see where writing about it took them, like Billy Collins did describing a June day. 

The results of writing about the ordinary were extraordinary.  We had a lot of odes-- to basil, clothes, cats, and a trustworthy car.  Commuting was a popular theme.  There was a witty rhyme about trying to get to work on time using public transportation and a musing about the ordinary scenes one encounters on the journey from one's door to one's regular seat on the bus.  I'm always amazed at these programs, not only at the creativity and thoughtfulness that comes out in people's writing, but at their eagerness and generosity in being willing to share what they have written with the larger group. 

After the program as I was back in the nave gathering up the dirty labyrinth socks to take home and wash (the not so glamorous part of my job as the coordinator of Cathedral Crossroads), a woman who hadn't shared with the larger group approached me and asked if she could read me her cinquain.  She was proud of what she wrote and wanted someone to hear it.  After she read her poem, she remarked that she was surprised that she wrote such a poem and thanked me for creating the safe space for her to open to the process. 

I've come to realize that as much as my path is about my own writing, it's also just as importantly about the ways in which I am called to help create that safe space and offer encouragement for others to discover how writing can open their own doors.  And that, is an extraordinary opportunity for which I am truly grateful.

An Epicure in Mathemagic Land

I recently learned that I am an Epicure.  Not as in a person with refined taste in food and wine-- although I am that too.  The first thing I do when I get stuck on a writing project is wander into the kitchen, open the fridge and cabinet doors and see what inspires me to break out the pots and pans.  Getting my creative juices flowing in the kitchen helps feed my writing, as well as stomach.  And if I'm stuck because my inner critic is being a bit too vocal, a glass of Prosecco or Bordeaux usually gets her to loosen up enough so that I can get back to work.
No, the kind of Epicure I discovered I am has more to do with the philosopher who lends his name to the term than the website where you can search for recipes from the now defunct Gourmet magazine. 

A few Saturdays ago I had the opportunity to attend a one day workshop on the Enneagram. The Enneagram is one of those personality type of tests that is often mentioned in spiritual communities as a helpful tool for understanding one's journey.  As the presenter aptly noted, people find out what their Myers-Briggs type is and think, "Oh yeah . . . " but when they find out what their Enneagram type is they say, "Oh shit!"  I've taken a few abbreviated on-line Enneagram tests before and thumbed through a book or two on the subject so I wasn't completely unprepared for the experience; however, it definitely wasn't like the warm fuzzy feeling I had about myself when I discovered I was an INFP.

Many of the challenges faced by a 7 (the Epicure or Enthusiast) are already things I know to be true about myself:  I like to keep my options open which means I have a hard time making a decision.  I am an eternal optimist but get frustrated with people who are negative or blame others for their unhappiness.  Of course, this also means I tend to deny or downplay any pain or sadness in my own life.  Like Epicurius, my underlying motivation is the pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain (or so the Enneagram says).  Boredom is something I try to avoid at all costs.  Consequently I have an active imagination and many interests to prevent me from ever being bored (another reason I usually have a book with me at all times as well).  Unfortunately, because I am interested in so many things, I sometimes. . . okay I usually have trouble focusing on any one thing and I get easily distracted.

Which brings me to how being a 7 impacts my writing.  After my dissertation was finished and the dust of graduation and the subsequent celebrations had settled down, I told myself it was time for me to to also settle down and get writing.  The problem was that I'd sit down at my desk and spend the next hour trying to decide which project I should tackle first.  Should I finish editing one of the essays from the personal essay class I just finished at the Writer's Center or pull out one of the essays I'd started but never finished?  Then there's the short story/novella I started a few years ago while on on a retreat at a monastery on the banks of the Hudson River-- the story that came to me in the form of a vivid dream and wouldn't let me sleep until I got up and started writing it down.  But then again, the YA novel that I began for last year's "Three Day Novel" contest still needs to be finished.  And I have the prologue and some notes from the story I started crafting on holiday in Ireland that lends itself to a novel.  But maybe something easier?  I could easily knock out a chapter or two of the do-it-yourself retreat  book I have outlined.  And it wouldn't take much work to turn my dissertation into a book.  Hmmm. . . or how about some poetry.  Or the children's book about the hedgehog butler, Gustav Prickly?

You see my problem? 

When I was a kid whenever we'd have a substitute in elementary school the go to lesson plan seemed to be showing the Disney classic, "Donald Duck in Mathemagic Land."  While I didn't love math all that much (and still don't) what I did love was the scene of the chaos and clutter in Donald's mind and how his guide encourages him to clear out the clutter and get organized.  Like Donald, my mental energy (and physical and spiritual) is often all over the place. This is my personal mathemagic equation:  too many ideas + hard to make a decision x not enough focus = a classic 7.

So I'm trying to find ways to cope-- to do my own virtual mental housekeeping in order to help me focus my energy.  Unlike Donald Duck, I'm a visual learner so file folders-- electronic or cardboard, don't really work well for me.  Instead, above my desk I've created a patchwork quilt of Post-It notes to try to get my writing projects organized.  Each endeavor is color coded by genre and contains a few notes as to the subject.  They're then lined up in neat rows on the wall above my desk by level of completion.  Ideas that have just started to germinate are on the top row while projects that simply need some final editing are on the bottom, with everything else in between.  When something is finished, it then gets moved to the wall beside my desk. 

I still have a lot of ideas (I've added a few Post It notes to the top row in the past few weeks) and I still have a hard time trying to decide what to focus on (only one project has moved to the completed wall).  Somehow though, as I sit here at my desk staring at the fruit colored pieces of paper lined up on the white wall my mind doesn't race quite as much and I can feel my body settling into my chair as I debate between two pink pieces of paper-- an essay on my obsession with death as a child or one about growing up with an aunt with developmental disabilities. 

Of course, as I ponder my choices I notice that the pink is remarkably close to the color of the watermelon I cut up this afternoon and put in the fridge which would go really well with the yellow heirloom tomatoes (which are themselves remarkably close to the color I've assigned to poetry).  I think I hear my inner critic starting to grumble about my getting distracted again but there's also a half a bottle of Riesling left from the other night which should appease her.

Paying Attention

So, I've decided to start a blog. This isn't exactly revolutionary. There are probably hundreds, if not thousands of people who are starting blog on this very day. And to be honest, this isn't the first blog I've started. When I traveled to Ireland a few summers ago I blogged to keep friends and family appraised of my adventures. The following summer, Mulling over the Mullet became Wandering in Wales (and Syria, Lebanon, Berlin, Prague, etc.) as I had an opportunity to travel to seven countries in two months. But since then my summers have been spent at home and my writing on walls has been limited to an occasional comment about a friend's cute kid or the perfunctory passing along of birthday greetings on Facebook.

There was a time when I wrote on walls a lot. When I was three I constantly scribbled "stories" on the rough surface of the cinder block walls in the basement of my childhood home. My parents eventually gave me paper and my first grade teacher (appropriately named Bliss) gave me the encouragement to turn my experiences into stories, thus Terri Lynn, the writer, was born.

It seems fitting then, that all these years later, having just finished a doctorate degree in Spirituality and Story, I am drawn to writing on walls again. It's a coming full circle that I need to pay attention to.

When I was traveling, both in Ireland and in Wales, I took countless pictures of crumbling stone walls in old abbeys and churches. What all these pictures have in common is that in each there is a door or window that serves as the focal point-- a threshold providing a glimpse into a world beyond the wall.

The quote from Annie Lamott that I chose as the tag-line for my blog comes from her book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. Early on she talks about her students who "kind of want to write but really want to publish." She goes on to say that writing helps you pay attention, helps you wake up.

Wake up. Pry open the door. I first typed "pray open the door" and maybe that's part of this endeavor as well. Pry open the door, pray open the door, peek through the key hole, peer around the corner, look out the window. Pay attention. Write over the threshold. That's what this blog is about. My journey in writing over the threshold . . .