Writing the Right Word

Do you ever find yourself stuck, fingers poised upon the keys and yet – nothing. There is a thought, the beginning of a phrase hanging on the very edge of your mind and then – nothing. You know there is a genesis word needed, or at least some word that will begin the avalanche of prose that is pressing so dutifully upon your mind, straining to flow through you and onto the page and into the world, a message of fine worth and clear depth – waiting for that beginning, that right word to give the process the smallest nudge into existence.

Well, that is where I am tonight and that word eludes me…

On Visiting Blue Hole - Bermuda

A did a piece of writing after hiking an area in Bermuda called the "Blue Hole."

The Blue Hole has an interesting history and contains some amazing submerged caves and private pools. One of the very few unsolved murders in recent Bermuda history occurred there, and it is the location of the oldest rock type on the island.

THE BLUE HOLE'S HOLD

Your now seldom trodden paths fall under new feet, withstanding each impact of soul and sole, bearing up upon unyielding and ancient rock the weight of another exploration, an adventuring spirit, another of the millions of creatures that you have felt wander across your very spine, and with thoughtless query your impatient question of 800,000 years rises again...

Will this be the one? Or will this be only another impertinent and transient creature that errantly uses the earthy mystery of this space for gathering dirt and stone, or ripping foliage aside for consumption, or splattering in fury, another's blood upon you hoping you will shroud its evil form detection? Or will this one impede the conquest and domination long enough to pause momentarily, stand still enough - long enough to allow your archaic message to creep from the core of this vain of our origination and stir as deeply within them as it resides within you, the tendril of impervious and undaunted myth that is your message?

A Story to Tell...

The sun cast shadows upon the meadow, long tendrils entwining the branches of distant trees into a single shadow.

An aging warrior sat upon a rock overlooking the rolling fields that lead to his town and home, allowing his thoughts to cast their own shadows, collecting into one thought: "How much longer can I do this?"

With effort he lifted his weight and stood facing west. He felt the pain surge through his broken knee, again and the skin burn beneath newly forming scabs on his back. He stood and prayed aloud.

"Odin, my guard and guide. For 50 seasons I have live here. For 36 of these years I have fought the Beast into submission, sending its weakened body and depleted spirit back into the caves to sleep and heal through the winter. I wield sword and shield in Your name and provide safety for my home, my family, my village. Each year I fail to destroy the Beast and like the certainty of each spring it returns. I am tired and wounded and this time I fear tired beyond the recent battle and am wounded of not only body, but spirit. How long, Odin, how long can I continue?"

The warrior gave into his pain and stumbled again sitting, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword and brow upon his forearm. He could hear the music and singing beginning already, drifting across the darkening meadow in celebration of his apparent victory. He knew better. He knew that the beast would live and in a few months they would renew their battle, and he doubted his ability to endure. He felt not only the pain of his new injuries, injuries that would heal, but the weakness in his limbs from healed and scared damages of battles past.

Tonight the village would sing. Tankers of ale would be hoisted in his honor. The voices of maidens would sing and young men would weave another chapter in the tale of his valor. Their Hero was invincible. The winter would be safe.

But next season would come and the fight, his fight would continue.

A breeze lifted his thinning hair and he raised his head.

"Odin," He spoke almost a whisper, "Tonight we will celebrate. I will not worry about the aging of my bones, or the weakening of my strength. Tonight I will give you thanks for our victory, another year of safety. But, tomorrow I will not lift tankers of ale or songs. I will forget the victories of the past, and I will prepare for the battles to come. I will lift wet-stone and blade, shield and arm and back to the work of a warriors training. I will not quit. Odin, you have my word and my life."

As the last word drifted away on the breeze, a tired man stood and began walking to the village.


Note: This story came to me this weekend as I finished hours of yard work. The fall cooling of the air is here, and I was aware that the hard work of yet another summer is almost at end. The respite of the fall and winter will soon be here - only to give way, soon enough to another year... I know there are a limited number of years left in my life when I can manage the hard and relentless work of maintaining our home, and I wondered...

Dangerous Passions?

A number of weeks back, several friends sent me the same link to a wonderful video of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on the angst of artistic genius. I'm not purporting to be a genius, but I have had my share of artistic challenges.

My first true passion was acting. I felt more alive when acting, soaking up the spot light and wrestling with the nuances of character development than I did living my real life. I achieved some modest success while making acting my hobby throughout my life including some professional time with a North Carolina Shakespeare Company, and several cable-run commercials. During college I discovered creative writing and I've had a few article published (during my time as a pastor). Sermon writing, at its best, is a highly creative venue and I relished in both the creation and presentation of sermons for 15 years.

In each of my creative adventures, I discovered the same reality – satisfaction of the urge to create and the compulsion to be a part of something new and dramatic is fleeting.

Often, upon reflection on my own creative internal disturbance, I am left with the following apparent and unsavory thought - The creative spirit, as embodied in so many artists, is its own bane. The artist can devote his/herself to the task fully and in doing so risk a rapid burn or can deny the very passion of the soul and lead a life of frustrated mediocrity. My trouble with this thought is that I don’t want it to be true. Is it possible for an artist to pursue his passion and not self destruct? Is there something in the nature of art that demands the humanity of the artist and leaves her broken?

There is more to say here, but I would rather leave it for your comments. So, dear reader, is your artistic passion dangerous?

Ride The Storm Out

Have you ever had to write?

I have.

There are times when the creative urge within us demands to be released and those of us that contain even the smallest creative tendency are imposed upon – it is a tempest. For these are the moments when the convergence of internal climates mock the posing power of even the most extreme external weather - for in these moments, the storm of passion assails us and we can but ride the storm out.

Sometimes the storm washes up marvelous beauty upon the sands for others to find as they walk by. Sometimes.

Skin Crawling

Spend some time with someone who gets under your skin.

When I as in college, among the various subjects I studied was physics. I remember very little of that complicated subject, but one concept that sticks with me is that in order to have movement, friction is necessary. Just a quick jaunt down memory lane to the last time my truck as ‘stuck’ in the mud and I fully understand the need for friction in order to move.

The need for friction makes sense in physics. In order for an object, a car for example, to move from one point to the next, friction must exist for there to be sufficient traction for movement to happen. There are obviously many more factors - laws even - at work in the equation needed to get that car moving, but my point about the necessity of friction make sense easily enough.

What brings me to this – and what this is about, really – is pondering the need for friction on an interpersonal level as we attempt to move through life. Without stretching the analogy beyond recognition, I have thought quite a bit recently about how even though I often choose to be around like-minded people, very often it is when I am face-to-face with an individual or idea that just grates on my nerves that I become most passionate, and I know passion moves me. Isn’t it true that we often hone ourselves against the wet-stone of contrast?

So, I hang out this thought today – Should I intentionally seek out times to be around a person, place or thing that I know irritates me? Is a possible solution to ease, and perhaps apathy as simple as forcing myself to experience something I am against?

Should I spend time periodically with someone who gets under my skin?

A Musing Space

The water, hot and welcomed, pounds my shoulders and cascades around my neck, stripping away the dirt and sweat. Anchoring my hands on the shower wall, I let the water work its magic. I close my eyes, exhale strongly, and release my mind. The water envelops me, my senses, my mind...

Are there sounds that are only heard by the deaf? Are there things unseen to those with sight? Might the angst-ridden beauty of artistic accomplishment reveal itself more clearly to those burdened of twisted mind and unbridled emotion?

My life has been one of growing peace and routine more than artistic angst or spiritual distress. For awhile now, I had grown accustomed to percolating emotions, those feelings that lurk, coiled and ready to strike, manifesting malformed action and self-destructive choices. I have found solace regularly in the creative word. The twist of a poetic phrase or the presence of a story unfolding beneath the key stokes often releases much. Now, it seems that I am driven less and less to release my serpents of spiritual distress. This is different. Not good. Not bad. Just different.

I know the truth. I know that there lies deep within me an eternal presence, my creative magical essence that demands to be known - my familiar, my dragon, The lines of poetry, the tales woven in prose, the occasional burst of fire breathed from comments, are all glimpses of a piece of her being: scales of translucent blue, a sapphire eye blinking in the dusk, the sound of a gentle, rumbling breath, a brush of a powerful tail. She is my eternal muse. I miss her, these days. I sense she misses me.

Yet, here in this steam cloud, beneath the relentless waterfall, while all sound is blasted away, I hear her breath, steady and smooth. Through closed eyes, I see again, the cave where she dwells. It is in this moment I know that I could extend my arm and touch her. I can't help but smile, wondering what journeys await.

We live.

Not Even Strange

It should have been a strange experience, but it wasn’t.

The room was filled with chatting and laughter. An arrangement of peculiar instruments were placed at one end of the room – didgeridoos, drums, crystal bowls, bull-roars, various flutes from around the world, chimes and items I could not identify formed a semi circle around two men.

My wife had arranged the evening, as she is prone to do, with certainty of purpose. She knows me, and she knows the likelihood of me pursuing such an event on my own is slim. She also knows that the reality of my appreciating and benefiting from such an experience is almost certain. We had registered and made our way back to the main room amid gathering people, nervous laughter, meaningful hugs and an atmosphere of escalating curiosity.

The group of us, about 15 in all, found our places; lying on the floor supported by various mats, pillows and blankets. After a brief explanation, the sounds began. This was advertised as an evening of sound and healing. Amid sometimes gentle and sometimes piercing sounds, I rested motionless and felt my way through the evening. Images came and went. Ideas floating in, some staying a while, and then out. I was sometimes aware of the movement and noises of others. Moments found me very aware of where I was and what was going on. Moments found me adrift in the twilight of relief. Then, as simply as it began, it stopped.

I listened as others shared of their experiences, stories of traveling to other places, regressing to previous life moments, journeying inward to spiritual realms. I understood much of what was shared – conceptually, at least. I just listened.

For me, it wasn’t about going anywhere. It was more about what came to me, and even that, the coming to me, I can’t really describe. What I can tell you is that I have slept wonderfully ever since. Something rode in on the waves of crystal bowls, and in the swirls of twirling blades, and through the chanting of ancient flutes. Something came gently on the tunes of voices and the rhythm of drums. Something of great value came and drifted through the discontinuity of my thoughts, images and sensations. It should have been a strange experience, but it wasn’t. The healing was, well, normal.

Good night.

Long Shadows

The long shadows stretch out, carving a swath into the close of the day. This day is more than the end of one more day, one more 24 hour period fading into the dusk of life and lingering in darkness before easing into the next. This day is his last day, the end, the final fading of life into that moment when the last step has been taken and the final period is written on the page – and so now, as the shadows creep into threads of night so long that they reach from horizon to horizon, he simply moves on… completing the task of washing the dishes, and letting out the cat. 

Would he do anything differently in these last hours if he knew? Would his mind bother worrying about the loss of his retirement plans, or spend any energy concerned about the uniqueness his most recent proposal at work – hoping by it to attract the attention of his boss who happens to be a very attractive young and single woman? If he knew that even now each breath was moving him closer to the measurable possibility of counting his last breaths, even knowing the number of beats left for his heart, would he bother with anything at all? 

He finds his way to bed, turning out the lamp and shifting to his right side as he always does, nestling his head into his too soft pillow, and curling his legs up to feel more completely the cat now nestled next to his stomach. His mind wanders about, replaying the events of the day as slowly his thoughts become less his own and a more independent, creative array of images begin molding their dream shapes, and fantasies for him as he slowly gives way to sleep. 

Sometime during that night his heart stops its rhythm. He ceases everything, resting eternally beneath the long shadows, the pall of his end.