Waiting for inspiration

Ok, so I'm still stuck on editing and beginning to believe it is a bigger concept and more about how people process. Even who we are.

Some of us process verbally and put it all out there to be sifted. And, for others, it evolves more slowly and internally, emerging more formed. There are probably combinations and we may switch off, but I have really begun to notice these two distinctions.

I also think much has to do with whether we are an extrovert or introvert.

In the creative process – whether it's art, nurture, ministry, writing or anything else – I don't believe those of us who do it one way, should expect that is THE way. Hum, sounds like a conversation on religion.

When I was younger, I was astounded by two depictions of the writing process. One person would sit alone at her desk for a very long time in silence and THEN the keyboard would explode. Another said she had to wait for inspiration. Heck, I was always on deadline, how can you wait for inspiration, I thought. Once I had my facts, I had no problem spewing, then later editing.

That was commerical writing, for me.

I've since matured, I hope, and write in a completely different way – at least for myself. I used to rely on an outline like a Bible or trusted road map. I still do, on occasion, when I am writing for somebody else and want to be sure to include all of the salient points.

Journaling, however, has taught me a very different process. One influenced by many years of yoga, meditation and worshiping in the Quaker way of silence. One of waiting, feeling, bodily imagining and seeing what emerges.

I seem to go to the place in myself that is unsettled, probably where the creative fire is burning. And sit with it a little. Sometimes not long at all. And I just feel it, swirling or welling up. Like a volcano pulsing, molding and then erupting onto the keyboard. Sometimes into the chalk in my hand and onto the page.

I've never thought about it this concretely before and, in doing so, seem to divest some of the magic.

Nevertheless, whatever has been welling up has done so for awhile and seems to come out somewhat constructed. Possibly edited. It's very much like when I feel led to give vocal ministry in my Quaker meeting (church). There was a very long time in my life when I never thought I'd be able to stand in a group and speak. It's still never easy, yet I am pushed to be the vehicle for a message. Not my message.

First there's a tightening of the heart as if it has been pierced by truth from somewhere. I usually try to push it back down with the inner critic saying, "No one wants to hear that." Or "That's your ego, not a true message."

If it dies out, it wasn't anything. If it keeps coming back and making my heart race, my palms sweat and my legs wobble, then I know I will soon be standing and speaking. Fortunately, Quakers have readily shared this discernment process and the first time I read a description that captured what I had felt, discovered comfortable affirmation.

I have also been told that to be really faithful is to stand and have no idea what you're saying. That has only rarely happened to me and, I suspect, is more the manner of a verbal processor.

Last summer, my 12-year-old whispered in my ear during worship that she thought she had a message to share. I said stick with it and if it doesn't go away, it's probably yours to give. I could see her nervousness and knew it was hers. I told her I'd stand with her and hold her hand if that helped. She went back and forth, the same thing I internalize, when I asked "will you regret it if you don't say it" and she replied "yes." So we stood and I must have trembled as much as she. I will never forget that wonderful day, nor the people who stopped her after worship with a silent hug or words of encouragement. This was not our regular meeting, but they knew this was special and her first vocal ministry.

So what if our messages, out in the public, are our vocal ministry? And what if some have been pushed through an internal editing factory already? Are they any less valid than those that have been tweaked externally?


• What is the current message my life speaks?
• How do I deliver it?
• What is my creative process?
• Have I molded it to the expectation of others or freed myself?
• Can I nurture others in that expression?


exhale
out
the tension

breathe
in
energy

clear the
mind

and
find
the place
in the
body

that's
speaking

what
truth
is there
for me?

shall I
share?

how?

have I
been
faithful?

Editing the truth

I've been thinking a lot about editing lately. Probably as the result of the recent publishing conference I attended. And because I have been an editor and experienced bad editors – those who wish to replace the writer's voice with their own. I like to think of myself as a gentle editor with others, preserving the voice and only helping to let it shine more clearly. In a sense, I guess it was some of my early nurture work.

But what's really been on my heart was the young woman who argued in a workshop that she felt the poetry from her journal did not need editing and the room overwhelmingly said it always needs editing. I leaned over and whispered to her: "Don't listen."

We had a brief conversation after as I had wanted to raise the same issue, but was not so bold. Maybe because it didn't feel safe. When this young woman, on the first full day of the conference, asked someone where they felt something in their body, I knew we were heart people, not heads. Another time she talked of the importance of embodiment.

At the open-mic session, she did read and what she had written was so very clearly from her heart and not in need of any change, just another heart to listen.

After this conference, I am struggling with the book(s) I want to publish as they include some of my journal entries, which I feel were written from my heart in the moment and, often, wisdom from the Source (God, Spirit ... whatever word speaks to you). When I re-read them, I have no urge to mess with them. The introduction and explanatory sections I have edited many times, but not the journal entries. They come from somewhere bigger than myself and arrived when I was in a very still and prayerful place. I'm sure they won't speak to everyone and maybe not many. But that isn't the point. Trusting in what feels like a gift is – to me.

Several new books announced or previewed at this conference were the journals of Quakers no longer with us. And, I can't imagine the actual journal entries of someone like Elias Hicks, for instance, being changed today. Maybe footnoted or explanation added, but not altered. I could be wrong.

So why is there another standard for those now journaling? I am not talking about event recording, but soul discovery and writing our hearts.

When we edit our hearts, we stray farther from the truth.

• What happens when I don't edit myself?
• ... When I trust my openness and truth that arise?
• What glimpses has that trust provided?
• What have I lost when I didn't trust?
• How do I "put it out there" even in the face of misunderstanding?


It was a
pearl

buried
so very
deeply

that I
had no
idea of
its
existence

An initial
irritation
that,
over time,
transformed

It took
dark,
subterranean,
trusting
excavation

to arrive
at the
treasure

Digging
that I
did not,
could not,
do alone

It's not
the shiny,
white
perfect
pearl

but it is
a gem

So, how
do I
share it
with others?

Meyham and foolishness

Ever have fun and not realize you really are working?

Twice a week, most weeks, I schlepp to the pool at 5:45 a.m. for a water class. Gets my day off to a very energetic start. We'd had a very loyal teacher for the past year and, suddenly to us, she was replaced. So, of course that day, I was grumbly.

I've since changed my tune. This morning as I was entering the locker room, I heard them singing Tequila in the pool. Sounded like a BIG party. It was. But once I jumped in, grabbed a noodle and did the moves, yeowoooosah. She was really working our cores. No one minded.

Lotsa karaoke happening as we twisted, splashed and yanked our bodies all over the pool. I even said to her she had a way of making us think we're playing when, in reality, she was whipping our cores into shape. She just smiled and said, "If it's not going to be fun, I don't want to be here."

Later, this morning, I watched a video about students at Wilmington College who have been identified as leader-scholars and are claiming a larger Quaker presence on that campus. It was entitled "Meyham and Foolishness" and began with this small group cutting up. Not the stuffy Quakers that might come to mind. The end settled into showing the depth and emotion of their companionship and collective journey. But they've had a lot of fun along the way.

That's what I want. More fun along the journey. Fortunately, my children often call me to that place and not always willingly.

Last week's very intense spiritual writing conference was softened and enjoyable because of several humorous forays. The deep connections can also be joyful, I often need reminding.

I hadn't banked on so many business sessions and academic discussions. There were exceptions, like being overjoyed at the crayons and paper spread across the tables of a workshop. I saw many tense at the props. The person next to me and I dove right in as blissful kids.

In the midst of many writers, I could see that as an artist, I was on a different page. A very non-intellectual page.

Thankfully, the pockets that flew in a different sphere, or the young adults who had just published a very living book stoked my creative fire. A bleak picture of the traditional good-old-publishing network was shattered by the enthusiasm, challenge and adaptation to new media of the younger generation. They worked hard and played hard – a great model.

This girl just wants to have fun ... as often as possible.


• Where is the playfulness in my life?
• Do I enjoy or seek it out with others?
• What's a time when I approached something serious with humor, joy or lightheartedness?
• What difference did that make?
• Do I model it for others or need permission?


tight
restrictive
dark

so
counter

to the
lightness
of creativity

I want
a playful
spirit

no
matter
how
I am
engaged

the kind
that kicks off
her shoes
even if the
stream
is too cold

instead of
missing
the
opportunity
to wade
in the
living
water

The grounded gypsy

I have a new friend who, as I write and, perhaps, you read this, is on her way back to British Columbia from Indiana. She's either on a bus or train, I'm not sure. Neither was she when we parted from the writing conference yesterday.

She cobbled her way to the conference by ferry, sleeper train and fortuitous ride on the fly. Her plans to drive with someone fell through last minute. Somehow, I know that didn't faze her.

I told her she was a gypsy and she didn't argue. She has an untethered, ethereal quality about her, which drew me to her.

My life seems anything but ethereal and untethered most of the time. Kids, appointments, schedules, projects, etc.

However, the past five days at a rather intense spiritual writing conference allowed space and time for detaching and freedom. To the point that, about halfway through, I had to ask what day, specifically, it was. I didn't have to know or, really, even care. Meals were provided (including all sorts of gluten-free goodies like brownies, cookies and muffins I usually must bypass), a schedule was available, I had a comfy bed at a nearby 17-room Victorian house and there were beautiful grounds to traverse anytime. A paradise of sorts.

A paradise for hard work and harder lessons, which would never have occurred in my normal life.

The work of finding clarity for the next step of my life by examining the experience of others, searching my soul, seeing a plethora of possibilities, winnowing that list and settling in to what truly fits me right now. It's only with a day of perspective that I can begin to unearth some direction. There's so much swimming inside my body and mind that needs to calm, dissipate or be expelled. For me, it's not a mental process, but more of a bodily one. There was a lot of talk at the conference of embodiment. I know I physically take things in, so this spoke very deeply to me. Now, I need to unload and only keep what is mine.

A tough challenge.

So while I might prefer to be ethereal and untethered as I have been, I must ground myself to incorporate the conference experience within the context of my daily life. Another opportunity to balance the inner and outer worlds. I find the only way to do that is to take a periodic break from the grind, truly detach, then come back refreshed and, hopefully, in a different place.

I think my new friend has figured out how to live that inner-outer balance with regularity. She's a wonderful model of the grounded gypsy.

• When do I detach and untether myself?
• What happens when I do?
• How does that shape my life as a result?
• What is my inner-outer balance and how do I tend it when it becomes lopsided?
• Is there someone in my life that can be my model or guide?


Push, push, push
rush, rush rush

get this done
and that

write it down,
mark it off

it feels so
mechanical

as if I'm at the
mercy of some
sinister plan

that will eat
me alive

unless

I step
away

take a
time out

regularly

turn that
blasted
machine off

and myself
back on


ahhhh ...
so much better

Gentler than a ladder

IF THIS WERE A DREAM:
...
I am just shepherding a group of curious kids down from the meeting-house attic. They had begged to see what I had once described as an amazing space. They could not, did not, wait for me and had someone else let them up. I hear their feet overhead and see that it is a concern to others, so I stop what I am doing (one of about three after-worship tasks) and race to the bottom of the pull-down stairs, carefully climb them to see the kids have pulled out a straw hat and cane and are doing a dance routine. Cute, but inappropriate.

I tell them they should have waited for me and that this is a tour, not playtime and convince them to descend. Funny, the frivolity ends at the top of the steep steps and I carefully guide them down. Once down, I am chatting with a number of people crammed into the small space at the bottom of the steps. I – almost unconsciously – begin to fold the ladder back. What happens next doesn't really register: the stairs unfold themselves and head toward me. There's nowhere to move, so I duck. But, darn, they crack me on the head anyway. I am immediately stunned, yet don't fall over or black out. No blood. I stumble out of the small space as tears flood my cheeks. What the heck just happened?

I am carefully tended to; luckily one of the bystanders is a nurse.
...
I MIGHT INTERPRET IT differently than it if were real life as it was.

The kids are up high playing, unwilling to wait for me to escort them. There is audible concerned expressed below and I feel compelled to bring them down to safety and as I do, I get hurt, stopped in my tracks.

Was I interfering? Why did I feel such a burden of care (perhaps because I had told them about the attic)? Why were some adults upset and others willing to facilitate the adventure?

There really seems to be a spiritual element and message here. I mean, after all, we' are talking about the attic of a church/meeting house. They kids ascend and descend. For a time, they are dancing above the adults and afraid to climb back down to what the adults view as safety and the kids see as boring and breaking their adventure.

I also see that the ladder literally exerted too much pressure on me, much like how I have let so many commitments in my life lately dictate its shape with very little room for me. And, recently, almost no room for a regular spiritual practice.

Hum.

A friend at the pool who heard this story asked if I really believed God made that ladder hit me, because I joked that God seems to speak to me through car crashes and accidents. I said no, it's just that I don't seem to listen to the whispers to slow down and things escalate until something almost catastrophic happens to really get my attention. She also said she'd read a good suggestion that instead of writing something like prayer or meditation time into her planner, she writes simply God.

That's much harder to ignore and gentler than a ladder as a reminder.

• To what in my life am I not listening?
• Is there an escalating pattern before I do?
• Do/can I make regular time for prayer/meditation/to be with God/Spirit?
• What happens when I do?
• What happens when I don't?


Cathy,
Can you do this?
And this? What about this?

An automatic
Sure, sure, sure.

How did I get trapped
into this pattern?

For too long
I have staked
my identity on it.

The pleaser,
the one
everyone
counts on.

How is
it serving
my ego?

How is it
detrimental
to the rest of me?

The fault
does not
lie with those
asking


but with me

Painting my heart in the moment

It's finally here. The day, a time and payoff for which I have been waiting and working for so very long. As I write, I am watching each and every page of my artwork – all 118 pages (winnowed from many more choices, only to be pared down again) – hum through my printer and out the shoot.

I tenderly admire each, as if a child, and place them on the pile while another births itself through the printer. They seem to come back to life after sitting in a frame or dusty pile in my studio. They took on another life, when I periodically would line them up to photograph them. They continue to speak to and teach me.

It gives me such joy. And, I knew it would. It's almost indescribable and there has been so much in the way and obstacles to surmount. I can see them with perspective, in departure from when they were originally rendered. And, now, I can view them in comparison to each other, newer work and even fmy very first water color (which still speaks deeply to me), side by side and witness how I have grown, not just artistically, but spiritually and as myself.

Color and energy are the constant. But in later pieces, I see more subtlety. Maybe maturity and then I spy the fire-engine red blob that so speaks to me of being a three-year old I know I just did it a few weeks ago. I think I am recognizing and responding to many of the aspects of myself.

It's like flashes of my life, not events, but how I felt and who I was. A true gift. And, I like, really like what I see. Unlike when I flip through old photos. Those speak of what some machine captured that usually didn't feel as I did. Someone else, someone distant. Not me. The art is me, my soul.

There are the sticky-wicket times, when the world appeared bleak or I was hibernating. Yet also a large proportion showing an open heart, embracing the world. Images reflecting on unexpected gifts, tastes of the Universe, its goodness and oneness. Recorded times when I felt like goddess or running around in my birthday suit like a toddler. Many of interior spaces, water and periods of deep contemplation and reflection. So much that flashes through to me as an echo of what I have learned. In a way so different than my written words in journals.

I seem to paint what I feel and emote. Which, to me, if far more valuable and trueer than what I see with only my eyes. I paint my heart in the moment.

• What records my growth and maturity over the years?
• Do I take the time to sift through and reflect?
• What do I see?
• How does that make me feel?
• How do I capture my heart in the moment?

Up the kite string

Lily's been wanting to be with me lately – like really close and snuggly. Just us. So, she set her alarm for 6:15 am, a half hour early, and crept into my bed. Tad was up at 6, so it was just the two of us. I had forgotten how wonderful that can be. So much melts away. She has always had a loud bark, which, often, makes me forget how young she is. The snuggling reminded me that she still does need and want my care and touch.

We both fell back to sleep. Later, she asked if I felt her medicine. I thought a minute and said, yes.

Ever since I've discovered I have fibromyalgia, she has physically comforted me in particularly bad spells. Either I haven't had as many lately or I haven't remembered to ask. So much of parenting happens in a blur that special nuances and rituals get lost. Even forgotten. I am so glad to be reminded that she is my medicine. Wild thing that she can be, she has a really big heart.

I have always loved the book, Where the Wild Things Are, and get a lump in my throat when I watch the movie because Lily is Max and every kid who feels alone, different or isolated ... until he finds a kindred spirit. As Carol, the wild thing, and Max are medicine for each other, Lily and I do the same. I have that relationship, though differently, with each of my daughters.

What intrigues me most about Lily is show different we are. Autumn I know like the back of my hand, which has its pluses (I totally understand her) and minuses (because I do, I often pay more attention to Lily and her wildness). I am learning that Lily and I are mirrors for each other. I teach her about discipline, dedication and respect and she reminds me to be fierce and playful. Sometimes together. Some day, I want to write a book called Letting my Lily out.

I had an interesting dream several years ago about being attached to what seemed like a kite string and looking up to see where it went. When I did, I saw Lily boosting herself up and waving for me to follow. She is fearless. It was as if she knew the grand adventure of climbing into the mystery and had no qualms about starting.

I'd put my child-development books away and hadn't thought much about them until a month or so ago, when Lily's behavior perplexed me. Then I read a really revealing article from the Waldorf School on the development of nine-year-olds and how it is such a pivotal time as they move away from the comfort and safety of childhood and familial closeness to gaining a sense of singleness, isolation and identity. The whispers of individuation. I feel that on the opposite end of the spectrum as I grow beyond middle age and into new, uncharted and wild territory.

Guess I will always be following her up the kite string. Thank heavens I have a trusted, though sometimes feisty, guide!

• What are my children or the children I know teaching me about myself?
• Is there anything in their development, fears or anxieties with which I can identify?
• Is there anything in their fearlessness and enthusiasm that I should reclaim?
• Who is my medicine? To whom am I medicine?
• What's up my kite string?

I've been
so busy
looking
down
at the
ground,
that I
hadn't
noticed the
string
the string
gently
looped around
my wrist
so as not to
get lost
for me,
not to
get lost
the tugging
made me
notice and
look up
up to
where
Lily
was
climbing
into the
clouds
with a
ferocious
smile and
wild wave,
begging me
to follow
and,
I did