Morning Pages

You know about morning pages, right?  Julia Cameron made them famous in her 2002 book The Artist's Way, with her suggestion to write three pages in longhand every morning, three pages about whatever ~ just write!

 

I'm indebted to my friend Michelle, chemistry professor and spiritual writer extraordinaire, for mentioning morning pages in conversation a couple of days ago.  I've had nothing to say for months, so I've barely written anything other than the sermons which are a job requirement.  But now I'm back to morning pages.

 

Well, okay, only two days worth, ten minutes a morning.  But it's more than I've written in a long time.  And perhaps, as Michelle noted, something worth polishing will appear. 

Non-Writing Writing Retreat

 

Yesterday at lunchtime, reeling a bit from the feelings and memories generated by the writing retreat, I suddenly realized that it had not rained as forecast earlier, and that there was nothing I needed to accomplish in the afternoon that could not be finished later.  To the marsh and the beach! ~ about an hour away.  The added bonus turned out to be that my friend Chris, who lives there, was home.  Although we live in such proximity, our schedules are such that we seldom get together. 

 

You might think otherwise.  She and I are part of a foursome of mothers who discovered one another through our blogs in the first couple of years after our children died.  We have been writing to one another ever since, first in a semi-formal blog retreat as we waded through Joyce Rupp's book Open the Door, and then in frequent emails and posts.

 

Chris made two points yesterday which have already had quite the effect on me.  I told her about my post earlier this week on Anger, and my . . . well, embarrassment, really, at having vented such a display of fury over ~ not much.  Especially after Karen, another of our moms, whose daughter died of cancer, wrote in her, as always, kind and understanding manner, to reassure me that I was not out of line.

 

"What if Josh hadn't died?" Chris asked. "How would the breast cancer experience have been for you then?"  I looked at her in surprise as I realized, "No big deal.  It would have taken a lot of time and energy and I would still have complained about the physical pain.  But I don't really care about the breast, I can do everything I used to do, and I have no reason to fear a recurrence.  I would have taken it in stride."      

 

I didn't add that my life's structure of loss was already so extensive that six months dedicated to breast cancer would not have been that difficult to endure.  (And here I apologize to all the women I am no doubt offending.  But in reading about breast cancer at that time, I realized that for many women in their fifties and sixties, breast cancer, either theirs or their mother's, is their first major experience of life-out-of-control and devastating loss.  For me, even without Josh's death, it followed the deaths of mother, brother, and two step-mothers, infertility, and a previous cancer scare.  One more thing.) 

 

For  me the trauma of breast cancer was losing a part of my body so intimately connected to the child previously lost.

 

"You have to remember," said Chris, "that all of your experiences now are through a Josh lens.  Things which would not have caused you to stumble six years ago loom large and crushing now."

 

We also talked about our challenges as a group in getting together and in maintaining any consistent writing schedule.  I commented that I think that we are each finally re-negotiating our lives and finding what they are supposed to be about. Chris reminded me that she had read an article, back at the beginning, that said it takes about six years post-child-loss to discover who you are and who you want to be.  (Since, I might add, who you were is long gone.)  Chris and Karen are now just past six years; the other Karen and I are just into the sixth year.  We have all let go of much that once seemed critical to our well being, we are all focused in our distinct ways on making the world a more generous place for those who live, and we are all learning to navigate lives in which we are surrounded by people who experience virtually every moment differently than we do, so that authentic connections seem few and far between.

 

I can't say that I wrote much this week.  But I do see more clearly why I so identify with and love Skyler White.

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Writer (That's Me) Needs Help!

Some of you have been following my blogs for a long while, some for less ~ and I think that more than a few of you know something about writing for publication.

I'm ready to start seeking some broader outlets for my written work, and wonder whether any of you have some ideas:  agents, editors, publications?  Can you introduce me to anyone?

Here's what I have going on:

My major project involves transforming what was my Desert Year blog ~ and related posts in my other blogs ~ into a book.  As I blogged away during the first couple of years after Josh's death, my topics were varied and I wrote indiscriminately:  the suicide of a child, the grief of parental loss, the absence of God, pastoral care for bereaved parents, attempts to re-group, seminary and ordination in the wake of unfathomable loss.  

I think that I've finally got some focus and direction, a framework for revision of those many pieces of writing ~ but I would be really happy to find someone interested in publishing it!  Perhaps Lauren Winner has just done it better (!), but we all have our stories to tell.  My current version contains so much of  (1) Ignatian spirituality and (2) persistence in ministry despite catastrophe that I think a small religious publisher, Jesuit or Presbyterian (yes, my life is always one in which unusual combinations materialize), would be a likely destination for my work.  Any ideas?

I'm also starting to formulate some articles/essays/small books/whatever in my head on the interface between various Catholic and Protestant spiritualities.  That interface is where I live ~ an Ignatian-trained spiritual director/Presbyterian minister, a pastor of a federated Methodist-Presbyterian church, a Protestant who makes retreats with Jesuits. I know a little about Benedictine, Carmelite, and Ursuline spirituality and nothing much about the Domincans or Franciscans; I know something about Wesleyan and Reformed spiritualities but a lot more about that of Ignatius.  I'm working on broadening my exposure and knowledge, and I would love opportunities to make it all more accessible to others.

So, you published writers out there: Can you help?

Sabbatical

It's not much fun to blog when so many people are prevented from leaving comments  by some Blogger glitch.

I'm going to take that as a sign that it's time for a break.  I'm working on a number of other writing projects right now, so maybe this lull is just the nudge I need to focus elsewhere for awhile. 

This photograph is captioned in my files as Last Sunrise.  I know that it's from St. Augustine; I'm guessing that the year was 2008, when none of the kids were available and The Quiet Husband and I went down for a week on our own.

Enjoy!

Slow Writing

 A year ago, maybe two, I received a real letter from Michelle.  On paper, in an envelope, with a stamp. 

And thus we commenced an erratic correspondence, one in which the U.S. Postal Service is a partner.

Then I began to receive occasional envelopes from Cindy and from Wayne. Sometimes mail arrives from the Karens East and West.  And from others I am forgetting to name.  And now Fran is threatening to send postcards from her vacation.

What gives?  I communicate with all of these people in a myriad of ways: blogs, Facebook, email, telephone, even in person.  Regular mail is surely the slowest and least efficient option.

There is something about a real letter, a letter that began in the hands of a real person, slipping through the mail slot and onto the floor of the front hallway, which conveys that communication between individuals is a matter of great moment.  There is something evocative and compelling about words formed by hand in ink, something lacking in words that appear on computer screens.  Letters are accompanied by more than the widest variety of software fonts can offer:  I am touched by the texture and weight of the envelopes, and  I delight in the images on the cards, images that convey those little extras about the writers that their words do not entirely encompass.

Three years ago I received hundreds of cards and letters in a matter of weeks.  Some of them still arrive on occasion, from people who have just heard the news, or who needed months (or years) to work their way up to writing.  I have been astonished by the eloquence of those letters.  They are utterly beautiful.  I treasure them all.  (And those somewhat delayed?   Great gifts.  It is genuinely moving and comforting to read that  others were so stunned and saddened that they, too, were immobilized.  Allies.)

I am not the best of regular mail correspondents.  But I am inspired to improve.

If we can write real letters so gracefully during times of tragedy, why not during times of joy, or adventure, or consternation, or complexity, or  just plain ordinary life?

I think that I like this slow mail movement!