“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves of your heart — your stories, visions, memories, visions and songs. Your truth, your version of things, your own voice. That is really all you have to offer us. And that’s also why you were born.”
Anne Lamott
“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves of your heart — your stories, visions, memories, visions and songs. Your truth, your version of things, your own voice. That is really all you have to offer us. And that’s also why you were born.”
Anne Lamott
Reminded that autumn is officially (meteorologically) here, today is a repost of thoughts from several years ago, even truer today.
I have discovered life in autumn to be more akin to entering the wardrobe of The Lion, The witch and the Wardrobe, than a protected and cozy cocoon. Autumn is a strange and wondrous place of mystery, questions, doubts, adventure and endless possibilities.
Living in autumn is a challenge.Exhilaration and frustration constant companions. Each day is like a sunset at the end of a cloudy day, when the sun breaks through revealing unexpected and startling beauty. The desire to grasp and absorb infinite nuances of color and contrast before darkness invades is overwhelming.
Despite its brevity, sunset transforms my angst and makes impending darkness inconsequential. Assurance of a new day, another sunset, restrains despair. I hold no regrets for my life, but I can say with confidence, I have never felt more alive than now.
2020 has a special ring to it. Maybe it is its alliterative quality or the birth of a new decade? For whatever reason, it seems special. As I reflect on the past ten years and optimistically look forward to the next ten years, I have become aware of some interesting realities n the autumn of my life.
For much of my life, I thought of aging and maturing as gaining knowledge, experience and wisdom, the end, of which, would assure a comfortable, blissful and uncomplicated autumn season of life. The trajectory of autumn is a process of reduction, a funnel drawing everything to conclusion. I was, of course, naive. Life is unpredictable, even more so in later years, when health, finances, relationships, are often tenuous.
Coming to autumn, I discovered it to be more akin to entering the wardrobe In The Lion, The witch and the Wardrobe, than a cozy cocoon. I have found myself entering a strange and wondrous place of mystery, questions, doubts, adventure and endless possibilities. Each day, is iIke a sunset at the end of a cloudy day, when the sun breaks through revealing an unexpected and startling beauty. Despite its brevity, sunset transforms the unpredictable and makes impending darkness inconsequential.
Living in the sunset is a challenge. The desire to grasp and absorb infinite nuances of color and contrast before darkness invades can be overwhelming. Only the assurance of a new day and another sunset, restrains despair. Exhilaration and frustration are constant companions. I hold no regrets for my life, but I can say with confidence, I have never felt more alive than now.
My blog posts are meager attempts to share sunset experiences. Certainly they will be inadequate. As we all know, the grandeur of sunset is beyond description.
Looking forward to 2020, here are a few subjects/ideas I’m pondering for blog posts. Of course, I expect there will be unexpected sunset experiences to share.
A couple of years ago I heard a lesson in which the speaker presented an interesting question: “What does it feel like to be a Christian?” It is an intriguing question, particularly for me. Growing up, feelings were not something that was important. In fact, to express a feeling about what you believed would immediately discredit your belief i.e. “I just feel as …”. What was most important was truth … objective, verifiable and certain. Feelings were not apart of a truth equation. In that context, feeling like a Christian would most likely be akin to the the feelings we enjoy when we are proven to be right. A sense of self-satisfaction, self-rightness. It is a great feeling to know that you KNOW.
Describing what it feels like to be a Christian takes on a different dimension when the question is modified. “What does it feel like to have Christ living in you?”… What does it feel like when you are abiding in Christ and he is abiding in you?”… “What does it feel like when the Holy Spirit lives within you?” …”What does it feel like when you no longer live but Christ lives in you?” What these questions, and numerous other similiar ones we might ask, presume/imply is an intimate relationship.
I do not suppose there is a “correct” answer but there are two metaphors I have used that I believe helpful in my search to understand what it feels like to be Christian. The first metaphor comes out of my own childhood experiece and the second is one I read and have long since forgotten its source.
One of my earliest childhood memories is an occasion when I was riding in the back seat of our family’s car. My mother and father were in the front seat. It was a summer evening and we were driving home. The windows were down and the cool wind was blowing across the backseat. I had curled up on the seat and was listening to my parents’ casual conversation. I distinctly remember the overwhelming sense of comfort and safety as we drove along. The breeze was like a refreshing warm shower. My parents voices were audible remeinders of their presence and protection. Even now as I write these words while on my front porch, there is a gentle breeze blowing across my neck that recalls that occasion. I cannot explain how such an apparently insignificant experience has remained with me. In that experience I believe there may well be a glimpse of what it feels like to be Christian.
The second metaphor is a scene in a lovely city park. A park with lush green grass and tall shading trees. There is a playground with a child and his mother. While the mother is seated on a nearby bench, the child, by all appearances, seems to be totally unware his mother’s presence. He is happily playing and exploring. It is obvious his mother is continually aware of him but he he is not concerned. He knows that she is there and that she loves and cares for him but his focus is on being a boy. Only his occasional glance to verify her presence betrays his concern for her presence and protection. Suddenly the scene changes dramatically, playing on the gym bars, the child loses his grip and falls to the ground suffering a painful scrape to his knees. In that moment, he cries out for his mother and rushes without hesitation to her arms where he is comforted, reassured and healed by her gentle kisses. In a short time he returns to his play confident in his trust of his mother.
Some years ago I read Not Quite What I Was Planning. The book is a collection of six-word memoirs. It originated from a project by on-line magazine SMITH that solicited submission of peoples’ life memoir stated in six words. I recently shared that I am writing my memoir. After working on it some, I’m thinking I might settle for a six word memoir. Here are a few examples from the book:
Seventy years, few tears, hairy ears.
Born in the desert. Still thirsty.
Macular degeneration. Didn’t see that coming.
Kentucky trash heap yields unexpected flower.
Thought long and hard. Got migraine.
Thinking about my own memoir. Here is what I came up with:
Writing a memoir sounds a bit narcissistic, or, at the very least, presumptuous. Cool people write memoirs. People who are famous or think they are, write memoirs. Those realities press upon me as I entertain the idea of writing a personal memoir. One might ask, “Who do you think you are?”
Well, that is precisely the problem. I’m not famous and suffer no illusions about that. Neither am I cool, except, perhaps, to a couple of grandchildren who are not old enough to know better.
I’m not a nobody but I am somebody. Even though today I am somebody, however insignificant or significant, in a few decades or more, I will be a nobody. In all likelihood the only evidence of my past existence will scattered ashes. A quote from Anne Lamott on my website header may be the best reason I have for writing a memoir.
“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves of your heart — your stories, visions, memories, visions and songs. Your truth, your version of things, your own voice. That is really all you have to offer us. And that’s also why you were born.”
In the end, the only thing I have offer is my story, for good or ill. It is my desire that my children and the generations to follow have the opportunity to know that story. It may not be a great story but there is no other story like it in all of history.
Perhaps, writing my memoir is nothing but a desperate attempt to resist the inevitability of anonymity? Regardless, I believe it’s worth the trip.
