What do I know?
What do I know?
Very little it seems,
but very much sometimes
about a topic that beams
directly into the depths
of the inner being of me.
I find myself enlightened
always seeking, more to know.
Never satisfied, never done -
the end of learning is never closed -
it goes beyond the sun.
A Morning Hour
The calm and quiet of a morning hour
Lord, You draw me close and whisper to pause.
My state of mind is blurry, a dashing bower
just sitting beyond my reach.
May I take the path that leads to quiet
A circle of sorts that pulls me closer,
Inward, seeking centre, peace, and silence.
Ignoring those distractions from distractions.
I have this theory that I am at my best when I am creating. This is when I am most focused, not on myself, and engaged with the act of creating. Indeed, because I am not focused on myself but on whatever I am creating, my deepest senses are open to being filled with the goodness of the Holy Spirit. I am henceforth not thinking of my own desires, as I might normally think about in any moment (what should I make for dinner?), but I am seeing through my characters' eyes if I am working on a story, or through a scene of beauty and truth if I am writing poetry.
These are my best moments because I am outside of the equation. The equation is all creative power, not indwelling momentary glibs of something else.
Idea, Energy, Power
Father, Son, Holy Spirit
Idea - the image or idea that emerges or suddenly sparks into your mind
Energy - the book written, the art made, the word incarnate, the image of your idea
Power - the book read, the art looked at, the effect upon the viewers' mind, and their reflections
If I follow along the Trinitarian thought process from Dorothy L. Sayers, in her fantastic book, The Mind of the Maker, I shall see that none can exist without the other. All are one and one are three.
The beauty of something complete is that it is made of many parts, and they all as a whole act together. And He is who holds all things together. Once an idea is made into a physical image of that idea, it must be shared in order to have any power.
Getting that idea into that thing made of course is a huge challenge, riddled with distractions. The solution to all the distractions from distractions is to be creative. To get down to it. To take oneself away from the things that distract (phones, computers, television) and drain one from the creative spark. Where did it go? Back to the storage place of your brain, easily shoved deeper back by the repetitive nature of how easy it can be to engage only with the mindless sort of things all so readily accessible.
But being creative, now that requires much of you. It requires you to give much of yourself. Give up yourself to be a creator. Aren't you giving mountains of time to your creation?
It is an amazing thing to think that we are closest to God's image (we are made in the image of God after all) when we create.
Dorothy L Sayers wrote about as we read the very beginning of Genesis, we are not told anything about the nature of God except -
...the single assertion "God created." The characteristic common to God and man is apparently that: the desire and the ability to make things.
Here in the act of making, we work toward a goodness so molding into shape in the mind, as the toil and churning brings about the physical form.
And yet, when the work is not like work, and the toil not so tiresome, it is strangely like a pleasure we only know through the very work of creating. We love what we do, and it does not feel like work of drudgery.
Dorothy L. Sayers again -
But when the job is a labor of love, the sacrifices will present themselves to the worker - strange as it may seem - in the guise of enjoyment.
To which she then quotes Edmund Spenser in his Faery Queene (basically - enjoy your work):
For some so goodly gratious are by kind,
That every action doth them much commend,
And in the eyes of men great liking find,
Which others that have greater skill in mind,
Though they enforce themselves, cannot attaine,
For everything to which one is enclined
Doth best become and greatest grace doth gaine:
Yet praise likewise deserve good thewes enforst with paine.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
- John Donne
Perhaps I am too optimistic in letting the sweaters stare at my from my closet. It is October, though. Do be generous - it should be time. Perhaps I am looking forward too much to the change of the season. Perhaps I do not belong in Florida from a weather perspective.
Perhaps...
I am a dreamer, dreaming of a season I do not get to fully experience. We always want what we cannot quite have, right? In the middle of a harsh, bleak winter, don't residents of the north just seek some sunshine and a place to let the sand squish beneath their toes on a beach?
John Donne speaks to me. His poetic verse brings me to nod in agreement. There is grace in the Autumn. Perhaps we need the seasons to change so that we develop, change, and appreciate the goodness and the challenges that each season brings. There is such truth in this.
The daydream of Autumn.
It's not just a scene or a temperature.
It's a feeling. A cosiness.
Hygge.
The candles. The hot tea steaming in your mug. The blanket covering your legs. The wind rustling outside. The feeling of safety from the wet rain outside.
Comfort food savory and warm. The scents of allspice, cinnamon, cardamom, and clove.
Leaves turn golden, rust, and cinnamon coloured. Some of these things I have to just imagine. Leaves can still crunch beneath my boots.
A sweater and scarf. Boots.
All the cosy things.
Warming up in a ray of sun.
Wanting to be outside all day.
These Autumn mornings so chilly.
Pumpkins and squash become the main dish.
I dream of these days, now that October has come. I will have to remain patient as the season is slow to transition, but I can always appreciate it all the same, in words and imagination. I can draw out the Autumn cosiness in any moment.
I am thankful for seasons - they reveal beauty and inspire reflection and appreciation.
God as a living author, whose span of activity extends infinitely beyond our racial memory in both directions. We never see His great work finished. Here and there we seem to recognize something which looks like the end of a chapter or the last page of a volume; or an episode presents itself to us as having a kind of completeness and unity in itself.
- Dorothy L. Sayers
The light is fading more quickly these days. I sit now at my little cafe table by my big windows, and just a few minutes ago, the room was ablaze with light. Now it has become a muted, softer glow. A cup of tea was just added to the table, after steeping in the kitchen, along with the book The Mind of the Maker by Dorothy L. Sayers, which I am slowly and intricately grasping in great delight. Oh, this book is a treasure of notes to the writer, or any creative person. She reminds me that to be the closest to God's image, we are to create. Simple and pithy. That is D.L.S. I have been reading more and more of her books lately, and everything I read is absolutely wonderful. I am dancing in her insights and stories.
In this book, I nod in agreement with her as she describes the created characters in a story, and how they have their own independent will, just as we do, and we were created by God. Authors do not seek to possess the characters and have them do whatever the author fancies. It is hard to explain this sometimes, but D.L.S. does it for me:
...he never desires to subdue his work to himself but always to subdue himself to his work. The more genuinely creative he is, the more he will want his work to develop in accordance with its own nature, and to stand independent of himself. Well-meaning readers who try to identify the writer with his characters or to excavate the author's personality and opinions from his books are frequently astonished by the ferocious rudeness with which the author himself salutes these efforts at reabsorbing his work into himself. They are an assault upon the independence of his creatures, which he very properly resents.
I love her notions that an author stands independent from the characters, rather than being absorbed in their own work. Reading this was such a comfort to me, that I am not the only one who writes like this, and wants my stories to be separate from me, where the characters of my create story will follow their nature, not mine. I am not writing autobiography, but a creative imaginative story to take us into another place and experience.
This is what I am contemplating as I sip my mint tea. D.L.S. has given me so much to contemplate in this book, and I eagerly absorb it all like a dry sponge. I am so thankful to sit here now, as mundane and slow as it is. By my window, the sun sinks lower and lower, the trees dance in an evening swirl, and the sky is scrubbed clean. These are the kinds of evenings I love as a season begins a transition. A beauty emerges in the rays of light. I delight in the fading light, as I do in the morning, growing light. Something about the bookends of the day offers the most thought-provoking scenes of colour and natural beauty. I sit here in wonder. It is nice to do that sometimes. Just enjoy the moment in thought.
Dad at Yosemite (10 years, 2 months ago)
This was a bright July day at Yosemite. We drove up to the highest peak for the spectacular views. It was truly jaw-dropping. Half Dome dominates the scene, a marvel on its own, but then you have a painting of waterfalls, cliffs, snow capped mountain peaks, and miles of pure natural beauty. And it's all so tiny, you feel like you could reach out and touch that waterfall over Dad's shoulder. My deep love of nature and appreciation of the trees, woods, waterfalls, and streams comes from Dad. His was a life-long love of the outdoors, hiking, and camping. I will never be rough and tough as he was, but that love of the natural world is a true kindling in me for words, poetry, and stories.
Always donning his BMW gear, Dad is wearing a BMW hat, BMW M-Power jacket, and BMW waffle knit shirt. It could seem like a juxtaposition to say that he was passionate about BMW and nature, but there you have it. He loved to drive his BMW 635 csi out into nature (along the curving roads) and then get out to experience nature. It was a perfect fit for him, actually.
This is a loss that does not diminish, but life does move forward as it has to. Living in the past can be dangerous, for we miss out on the present and the coming good. Our loved ones who have gone before us would not wish any one of us to dwell in a past sadness, but to look upon it with a smile. And I smile at this trip.
I feel endlessly privileged that I grew up with such a Dad, who lived by example, lived to love, and lived to give. My heart and soul is shaped by that, even more than I ever realized 10+ years ago. I am still being shaped by that, and still learning what it means. I strive to live up to his good ways.
I feel badly for those people who did not know my Dad. If you never met him, that is a loss, indeed. Those who didn't know him have a loss they do not even recognize. Their lives are missing something special. That is why, if I can emulate a part of the good ways in which Dad lived, I can allow his life to be known somehow in the here and now. His goodness lives on, 10 years and beyond, through all of us who knew him well.
Air of Delight
A treat is in the air
A breeze befuddles the trees
and turns the day inside out -
Our brains feel confused,
so accustomed to the heat -
What is this air of delight?
Signify something, we pray,
something of a change -
The swift-seated season
transitions into a ripeness,
an openness like a bloom,
ready to receive.
Don't take a step back,
translate instead the newness
of the breeze we have met in acquaintance.
May the season and our expectations rise
and meet in the heavenly place
of mutual delight.
Man's creative work is the fulfilment of the Creator's secret will.
- Berdyaev
There are secrets and mysteries we cannot discover the answers to. There always will be. It is interesting to muse upon this idea. But that does not mean we cannot capture those momentary glimpses of something beyond our own knowledge in the act of creating.
Could our creative work reveal (lift the veil) just a tiny bit to see a glimmer of some of that secret? Do we possibly stand on the edge of something so mysterious, and by our work we get a glimpse over into the other realm, not too much, but just enough to fill us with deeper wonder?
I think this is what imaginative stories do for us, and we can do as creators of such stories. Whether we are published writers who fill pages of books, or we are parents/teachers/aunts/uncles of young eager learners who make up creative tales that go beyond the edges of the known maps, we are opening up to another world when we relinquish the hold we have on this world so seriously.
Sometimes that means we may need to laugh more. Or take the time to indulge in creating a magical story with a young child. Or listen to a story being told.
I feel like I am sometimes on the brink of something mysterious and wonderful, not quite understood, but fully immersed in. The details come streaming in, and they walk around in my thoughts for a long while, formulating and musing along the way. But only when they emerge to the page do they have some more purpose.
Don't let these stories fade. Smile at their presence, and get to work. Getting them scribbled on the page makes them one step closer to bearing the availability to share with others.
Shadows
A wispy vision arises in the mind,
caressing the landscape, yet covering beauty,
and there it grows, like a shadow.
As the sun sinks swiftly, into land slipping
beneath the earth where shadows
go to dwell passing time in evening -
twilight, darkness, deep-domed things -
Awake! Let the light shine on shadows
of the deep -
Things that grew, but only
in the mind.
Things that consume, but only
if you allow them.
Hold it out in your outstretched hand,
and inspect how translucent it is,
then crush it with your fingertips,
letting specks of dust fall with your breath -
it is a shadow of the mind, a wisp not visible.
Let the light shine on shadows.
Magic Pages
They might seem blank now
Papery and thin, a whisper
of what is to soon be revealed -
On these pages somehow
with printed lines or not -
We venture into the realms of imagining.
Whether life blood or mind matter
Words inky and scribbled,
sometimes hesitantly, otherwise at mind-speed.
These are the pages that rise and scatter,
not sitting still in their bound book.
The words do their best work when released.
These are magic pages.
