The Four Rs

 There are four activities (or perhaps in two cases, non-activities) which I find to be vital for my soul's continuing well-being. And this past few days, I have been indulging in all four of them, to my delight and joy... And for me, they are summed up in this lucky photo of my favourite beach in all the world, Benar Beach, which was taken earlier this year. There is something about the "permanence in motion" (to quote Stephen Donaldson) of sunlit waves which restores my soul. 

Benar Beach in mid-Wales (Sue Woolley)

What are my Four Rs? Rest, Relaxation, Reading, and that well-known honorary R, WRiting. I drove up to spend a few days with a very dear friend on Sunday afternoon, straight after leading worship in Shrewsbury (because that meant I was part way there already). My friend lives in a tiny hamlet in the Lake District and over the past few years, I have fallen into the very pleasant habit of spending a few days in her hospitable company three or four times a year. Both of us enjoy our time together very much.

The shape of my visits is unvarying - we indulge in extensive bouts of the three Cs - Canasta, Crochet and Conversation. As the days pass, I find myself sleeping in later and later, which does me good. And also travel to delightful towns which have good wool shops and bookshops. I will be travelling home with three new books... Bill Bryson's Dictionary for Writers and Editors, Write to be Published by Nicola Morgan, and Illuminated Alphabets by Patricia Carter, all bought secondhand - wonderful! I've already read the Nicola Morgan book - I knew I recognised the name - I enjoyed her first novel, Mondays are Red, about a teenager with synaethesia - more than twenty years ago.

Reading is the only constant activity in my life. During 2023 so far, I have read 95 books. To be fair, many of those are re-reads, which take less time, but I have also discovered some new joys: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters, Writing Down the Bones and Old Friend from Far Away by Natalie Goldberg, Femina by Janina Ramirez, and The Poet's Manual and Rhyming Dictionary by Frances Stillman. All delightful, and in some cases, very useful.

How do you restore your soul?

Passion + Discipline = Bliss

 I found this week's quotation, from Yehudi Menuhin, one of the greatest violinists of the last century, fascinating. as it could be read in two different ways. It says, "Bliss is above all moderation."

And I realised that this could be taken in two ways:

        1 [Bliss is above] [all moderation]

        2 [Bliss is] [above all] [moderation].

Which mean very different things. Did he mean that bliss is the most important thing and that it trumps moderation in every case? Or did he mean that bliss is all about moderation? And what does moderation mean, anyway? I checked the word on the wonderful website Power Thesaurus, and was presented with alternatives which included "restraint", "control" and "prudence". 

So I googled 'Yehudi Menuhin quotes' to see what else he had written, and found that he seems to be advocating both bliss and moderation. In one quote, he wrote, "Music creates order out of chaos: for rhythm imposes unanimity upon the divergent, melody imposes continuity upon the disjointed, and harmony imposes compatibility upon the incongruous." Which seems to suggest that he values the disciplinary aspects of music - how it enables unanimity, continuity and compatibility - balance. He also asked, "Do we not find freedom along the guiding lines of discpline?"

He was clear that if he wanted to play well, he would need to work hard. He wrote, "To be an outstanding musician, you have to be very attentive to the smallest detail, and willing to have infinite patience in the pursuit of your ideal. You require absolute control and professionalism."

 

On the other hand, he also wrote, "Improvisation is the expression of the accumulated yearnings, dreams, and wisdom of the soul." And said that "the violinist is that peculiarly human phenomenon distilled to a rare potency - half-tiger, half-poet." He saw music as "a path between ourselves and the infinite."

So I come to the conclusion that Menuhin believed that it is necessary to combine your passion for your craft (whatever that is) with the discipline to practice it regularly, so that you will be able to achieve greeat things. It is when you combine the passion and the discipline that the bliss results.

I recognise the truth of this from my own discipline as a writer. I love writing and know that if I want to become the best writer I can be, I need to sit down every day and write something. And that when I do, the result will sometimes be blissful. And that is worth all the times of frustration and struggle which are a concomitant part of the writer's life.

Aim Small and Build

 This week's quotation is attributed to "Chinese wisdom". It reads, "It is better to do small deeds, than to plan great ones." 

I think the implication here is that we often get overwhelmed by great deeds and give up part way through. 

But I believe that the biggest and greatest deed can be completed, so long as we break them down into smaller parts and patiently complete each smaller part, one at a time.

In her wonderful book for writers, Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott includes a chapter on short assignments, because she knows how overwhelming the prospect of writing a whole book can be. She writes, "I finally notice the one-inch picture frame that I put on my desk to remind me of short assignments. It reminds me that all I have to do is to write down as much as I can see through a one-inch picture frame. This is all I have to bite off for the time being."

She further quotes E.L Doctorow, who wrote, "Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."

I find the words of both Lamott and Doctorow inspirational. It means that we don't have to panic about completing a big task (like writing a dissertation or a novel or whole service, or cleaning the entire house from top to bottom) but need only tackle the small task at hand.

I try to write for an hour each morning. Some days I breeze through it, the ideas floating up in my mind, eager to be transcribed onto the computer. But far more often, I sit and gaze at the blank page on my laptop and have absolutely no clue what to write. Then I think of Anne Lamott's words and get down a small picture frame I have above my desk (see below) and remind myself that I only have to write one scene, or even part of a scene. And that it won't be perfect, but that doesn't matter. The important thing is to write something, anything. Because that can then be revised and edited.

Even Mount Everest was climbed one step at a time...

Simply Staring at the Water

 This week's quotation, by Bengali poet and writer, Rabindranath Tagore, says, "You cannot cross an ocean by simply staring at the water."

And it made me realise that is what I have spent most of the time since Christmas doing. At least so far as my writing is concerned. Towards the end of 2020, I felt I had got the first volume more or less done, and started on volume 2. By the end of December, I had written the first eleven chapters, nearly 40,000 words, and with each additional chapter, I felt more and more unhappy. The well of inspiration was running dry.

I started to fiddle around with those eleven chapters, re-writing scenes, changing this, altering that. But none of it worked. I realised I hadn't got a clue where I wanted the story to go, and that I really didn't like one of the new characters I'd introduced and couldn't think how she was going to further the story. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? It was clear that just trying to bull through wasn't working. Each scene became increasingly difficult to write, and after a couple of weeks, I was ready to give up.

So I started to listen to American writer Brandon Sanderson's latest series of lectures on writing science fiction and fantasy, from which I've learned heaps. And this time (he posts them on YouTube each year) as I listened to the two lectures on character, I finally understood how I could stop staring at the water and get writing again. He explained that each scene has to be written in the light of the character's motivations. So in the middle of this week, I spent my entire rest day writing character arcs for my ten main characters. As I wrote, new ideas began to come, and now I have a much better idea of where I'm going. So I'm working my way back through volume 1 to make sure each scene moves the point of view character along, and am going to completely rewrite those eleven chapters. All sorts of exciting possibilities are spinning round my brain, and I have my writing mojo back.

It is said that a journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step. And sometimes, that first step is the most difficult one to make. It helps if we have a map, or at least some idea of our destination. And the motivation to get up and walk out of the door. It can be so tempting to stay in, huddle under our blankets and choose not to change. But I believe that it is always, always worth it. If we are to live our lives to the full, we have to stop staring at the water, and dip our toes into that ocean.

The Perfection of Ideas

 I was tempted to call this blogpost, "I wish." Because I'm not sure I altogether agree with the 18th century French moralist and essayist, Joseph Joubert, when he wrote, "When the idea has reached the highest level of perfection, the word breaks open like a blossom."

It would be wonderful to think so - that we will magically be able to translate the ideas of our minds and hearts into faultless prose or poetry, which will interpret them fluently to our readers or hearers. But it ain't necessarily so. Or at least, it isn't for me.

Sometimes, when I'm writing - whether it's an address, a blogpost, a journal article, or the latest scene of the work in progress, I am inspired (I call this 'a visit from the Inspiration Fairy') and the words do flow, and I seldom need to do much re-writing. But the more usual state of affairs (for me, and for most writers, I would guess) is that we sit in front of our computers or notebooks, staring at the blank page and thinking unprintable thoughts as we struggle to translate our ideas into words, sentences and paragraphs which will mean something to other people.

I always keep a notebook by my bed, in case the Inspiration Fairy comes to call. She has been good to me over the years, offering not only ideas, but also (sometimes) complete paragraphs or scenes. Often in the middle of the night - hence the notebook.

But I believe that most writing - whether it is an address, a short story, a magazine article or any work of fiction or non-fiction - comes into being through hard graft. It is the duty of the writer to turn up at their desk, roll up their sleeves and write.  The important thing is just to show up. It doesn't matter if what we write at first doesn't work, if we would blush to show it to anyone. The fact is, by having the faith to turn up, we are giving our writing muse a chance to show up themselves. We may only keep a single sentence out of a whole page on some days, but hey! That's still progress. And that single sentence may open the door to new ideas. Which will then need polishing into what Joubert calls "the highest level of perfection." Or at least, the highest level we are capable of producing, just then.

The final version may be (probably will be, most of the time) much different to what we first wrote - this blogpost, for example, has been revised quite a bit - but because I sat at my desk and showed up, the work has been done. And that is such a precious gift.

Past and Future

On this final day of the year, the quotation by Tseng-Kuang is most apposite, "Do not worry about the past, turn to the future." 

It reminds me of the annual joy and challenge of filling in my Year Compass, which I will be doing with my other half this evening. I blogged about this here. We will be looking back on the past year (and oh my, what a year it has been!) and looking forward to a (hopefully) less constricted 2021. Although I must say at this point, I would far rather remain in lockdown longer and get this horrible virus defeated, than come out early and risk it going on indefinitely.

In spite of all its oddness - who would have dreamed that everyone not only could, but should, walk into a bank in a mask and ask for money and no-one would turn a hair? - 2020 has not been entirely bad. I have grieved over the loss of friends and acquaintances, and missed all the hugs I haven't received, the friends and family I haven't seen face-to-face, and the Unitarian events I haven't attended (especially Summer School). But like I say, it has not been all bad. I turned 60 in February and am happy about that. My first novel, One Foot in Front of the Other, was published in October, and I would never have dreamed that I would be featured in a prominent broadsheet newspaper, talking about it. And I have crocheted four blankets and worked on my next book most days.

At this time of year, a time of endings and beginnings, I always find the words of 19th century Unitarian and Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson both challenging and reassuring: 

"Write it on your heart that every day is the best day of the year. No man has learned anything rightly until he knows that every day is doomsday. Today is a king in disguise. Today always looks mean to the thoughtless, in the face of a uniform experience that all good and great and happy actions are made up precisely of these blank todays. 

Let us not be so deceived; let us unmask the king as he passes! He only is rich who owns the day, and no-one owns the day who allows it to be invaded with worry, fret and anxiety.

You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays."

I hope that 2021 will be a better year for all of us - that we will all be vaccinated against Covid 19, that we will eventually be able to meet in person once more, and that our experiences of the past year will have turned us into kinder, more compassionate people. Another New Year will be welcomed in at midnight, full of hints and promises. We have another chance to learn new things, to make new friends, to appreciate old friends, and to recognise the Divine everywhere.

May it be so, for all of us.

 

Grandad's Roses

 "If a man had no other ability but to grow roses, he would be perfect." These words by Wilkie Collins, immediately made me think of my grandfather, Alec Ellis. Who was a perfect grandfather. He and Grannie used to buy me special books for Christmas and birthdays, and fed my love of reading and beautiful words. He may be better known to Unitarians as the author of Lawrence Redfern: A Memoir, which was a tribute to his friend and minister at Ullet Road Church in Liverpool.

I only knew him for a few years - he died when I was still quite young - but I loved him dearly. And he was the very first author I ever knew. The first book of his that I read was his chapter of autobiography, The House of Woolton Hill, which tells the story of how he and my grandmother moved from an ordinary house to a small mansion on Woolton Hill in Liverpool, and bought it sight unseen, as it was on requisition to the Army at the time. But they had fallen in love with the gardens... this is his description of his first view of the rose garden:

"We turned aside down an overgrown path which led to a secluded rose garden. It was triangular in shape, one side being bounded by what must have been a magnificent rock garden... a shrubbery occupied the second side and the remaining side was devoted to a pergola covered with rambler roses. The bush roses had been planted in a number of shaped beds. There was a centre round bed surrounded by three curved beds. These in turn were surrounded by four curved beds.... The remainder of the space was filled by small round beds, each containing a climbing or rambling rose..... The roses had grown tall through lack of pruning, but they were flowering in great profusion and there must have been a couple of hundred in flower that evening, filling the garden with sweetness. I was instantly struck by the peace of the place. Beautiful it certainly was, even in its neglect, but it was the peacefulness of the place which did something to me. I felt it was the sanest place I had been in for many a long day."

In due course, the whole garden was restoed to its former glory, and a picture of the rose garden adorns the cover. 

When I knew him and Grannie, they had moved to a bungalow in Hereford (my grandmother had had a serious stroke) but the front garden was also a glory of roses. Sadly, I have not taken after him in one respect - I am no gardener. But both my father and I inherited his love of words, and the joy of writing them down. I owe both of them a great debt.

Finding Your Own Place

The Greek philosopher Plato wrote, "There is a place that you have to fill that no-one else can fill, and there is something for you to do that no-one else can do."

By sheer, gorgeous serendipity, this fits in beautifully with the audio book I have been listening to this week, Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. Its sub-title is 'Creative Living beyond Fear' and it is about exactly what Plato says. Finding your own creative place in the universe, and writing / painting / crafting / creating what you do, because it is yours to do.

When I first read it, I had not dipped my toe into the (to me) dangerous waters of fiction writing. I had written a memoir, Gems for the Journey, and was about to start doing the research for my book about Unitarianism in the UK, Unitarians: Together in Diversity.  And of course, I was writing an address each week, as part of my role as a minister. Which, although I did not realise it, was helping me to find my 'voice' as a writer.

So although I had no difficulty in seeing myself as a writer, the idea of writing fiction was a scary one. Where would I get the ideas? What if they stopped coming? What if the ideas were stupid? How could I dream up something original? How would I be able to hold a reader's attention?

Then I joined Northampton Writing Circle, a monthly group for local writers. We meet at the Quaker Meeting House, and are given a topic / theme to write a short story about, each month, by our Chairman. Then, the following month, we read our contributions aloud to each other, and receive the group's critiques. I had never attempted to write a short story before, but I thought, 'How difficult can it be?'

I had so much to learn...

At first, I found it very difficult to receive feedback about my stories. Any criticism (as I perceived it) left me feeling prickly and defensive. But I gradually realised that if I received it with an open and grateful heart, I would learn more, and slowly, very slowly, my writing has improved.

Reading Liz Gilbert's book was a real boost in this process. She shares her philosophy that being creative should be fun and stimulating and inspirational. That the idea of The Suffering Artist is a toxic one. If writing (or painting or whatever) gives you so much grief, why do it?! She taught me that writing can be a joyful process, something that would feed my heart and soul.

And so it has proved. After I had read Big Magic for the first time, I thought to myself, "Why not?" and started the long, slow, but infinitely rewarding process of writing my first novel. Which I managed to fit in alongside doing the research for my Unitarian book, and the day job, being a Unitarian minister. Then I revised it, and revised it again. Then, in fear and trembling, I asked the Writing Circle's Chairman, who is also a professional editor, to edit it for me.

Which was a whole 'nother learning process in itself. By the time he / we had finished with my MS, it was much tighter, better structured, and more readable. I began to hope that I might find a publisher. And I did! My novel will be coming out on 1st October this year.

But if I had listened to the gremlins, who were telling me that my writing was no good, that I could never write a fiction book, this would never have happened. I would never have found "my place", which no-one else can fill.

What place might you have to fill, that is yours alone?

Loneliness vs Solitude

This week's quotation, by Hans Krailsheimer, really resonated with me, "To *have to* be alone is most difficult; to *be able to* be alone is most beautiful."

I have always liked being alone - more chances to read! - but until a few years ago, there was always the nagging doubt of "Am I missing out on something?" I needed the validation of other people's presence and approval to function.

But over the last ten years or so, as my spiritual journey has moved on, two steps forward, one step back, I have come to truly appreciate the benefits of solitude. I looked at the photo above and my first reaction was "Oh, I wish..." It all looks so peaceful; the white house in the sunshine, set in the natural world, and the small white boat in the foreground... I longed to be there.

Loneliness is a terrible thing... you feel unloved, unwanted, as though the world has passed you by. Whereas solitude, the ability to spend time alone, by your own choice, with the Spirit, can be wonderful. I have also come to love silence, and no longer feel the need to fill all the spaces in my life with words. To sit in silence is to be at peace.

So I would love to spend some time in that little white house, with a desk, my laptop, and endless supply of tea and coffee, and time to write. Bliss. No phone calls, no texts, no e-mails, no calls on my time. I would write and write, then take a break to walk in the landscape, or perhaps take a turn on the water. Then return to the house, to write again.

I think that the key thing is balance. While I would love to spend *some* time in that house - perhaps a week, perhaps two, I would begin to miss people after that. There are few pleasures I enjoy more than sharing the evening time with my husband, half watching something on TV, half doing a craft - cross-stitch, crochet. Because sharing your solitude with another can also be wonderful.

Just Write

Yesterday, I attended my first ever Writing Retreat, organised by Writers' HQ. It started and 10.00 am and went on until 4.00 pm. There were hot and cold drinks on tap, and we stopped for two 15 minute breaks and one 45 minute lunch break. Apart from that, it was eleven writers, sitting around a square of tables with their laptops or notebooks, and just writing. We were asked to declare our goals at the beginning of the day, and I achieved mine comfortably. At the end of the day, I felt like this;

It was such a joy to be able to spend a whole day writing - no distractions, no phonecalls, no Wifi. Just writing.

And there are retreats for all kinds of creative talents going on around the country. A friend of mine recently attended a week-long icon writing retreat, and has come home with an exquisite icon of Christus Victor. And I know friends who have been on sewing retreats and created marvellous things.

I am so grateful to the people who organise these events, and allow people like me to "follow their bliss" in the words of Joseph Campbell. It would not have occurred to me that I could write for so long. And I was typing at my normal speed.

Of course, it was only first draft stuff but, nevertheless, I managed to get my ideas down on paper (or at least in Word document) and came away feeling fulfilled and proud, but also very tired.

Quiet Interval of Peace

I've just spent a week in the beautiful Welsh village of Trawsfynydd. Its setting is beautiful, above a deep blue lake, with the green and brown mountains and hills, noisy with sheep, all around. Last night, on my return, I felt moved to write a sestina about it:

Trawsfynydd: A Sestina

I have this blessèd interval of peace,

A pile of books and notes and files to read,

The hours stretch out before me like a path,

A week out of time to do some writing.

Inside the cottage all is very still;

Out in the world, the sky is dazzling blue.

Unsettling my mind, I’m yearning for blue –

The hills lure me out with promise of peace.

I walk to the lake, its quiet waters still,

The beauty of God is there to be read.

Yet somehow I must get back to writing …

I sigh and retrace my steps down the path.

And muse as I walk down the soft, green path,

Turning my back on the water so blue,

On my research, that I should be writing;

Instead I’m possessed by a deep, quiet peace,

Which bids me forget what I need to read

And start on this poem in quietness still.

So I get out my journal, sit quite still,

Fall into reverie, follow the path

Of my thoughts as I write, re-write, then read,

Begging the muse to come out of the blue

Bestowing on me her blessing of peace

As words start to flow, and I am writing.

Bliss happens. I would not exchange writing

The joy of creation, that serves to still

My restless heart and restore my lost peace,

Placing me firmly back on the right path.

Words down on paper – why was I so blue?

I pull the files towards me, start to read.

I read and take notes, then once again read,

Nothing now stops the flow of the writing.

I glance outside, the sky is now dark blue.

I look at my watch, quite unready still

To stop work just yet, now seeing the path

To fulfilment, and a deep, grace-filled peace.

No more time to read, it’s time to be still;

No more swift writing, I’ve mapped out the path,

With quick strokes of blue, time to trust in peace.

Not the best sestina in the world. But it has satisfied a very deep need in me, to translate what is in my heart into words on paper. Writing is such a glorious satisfaction. I feel so very blessed.

The Consolations of Poetry

This blog-writing business is hard work. Sometimes the inspiration doesn't come to order. Like this week. My mind has been distracted by the mundane, and my heart has not been open. So rather than having a big fat zero for an entry this week, I turn to a predictable source of consolation, poetry.

image: flickr.com

By a happy coincidence, one of my recent discoveries, William Stafford, was born 100 years ago this month, on 17th January 2014. I was introduced to his poetry by the wonderful Panhala blog, and by a friend on Facebook. So in honour of his centenary, a poem by William Stafford:

How These Words Happened

In winter, in the dark hours, when others

were asleep, I found these words and put them

together by their appetites and respect for

each other. In stillness, they jostled. They traded

meanings while pretending to have only one.

Monstrous alliances never dreamed of before

began. Sometimes they last. Never again

do they separate in this world. They die

together. They have a fidelity that no 

purpose or pretense can ever break.

And all of this happens like magic to the words

in those dark hours when others sleep.

Sharing the Risk

Yesterday I attended a workshop led by Rev. Andrew Hill, called 'Writing Worship Material'. Nine of us from the Midlands and beyond gathered at Unitarian New Meeting Church in Birmingham. I don't know about the others, but I was feeling a bit apprehensive about writing my own prayers, not having much experience of doing it. I've always felt that other people's words are so good, why write your own. But I've come to realise that there are times when your own words are best.

It was such a good experience. After some theory and hints and tips, Andrew encouraged us to get writing. During the day, each of us wrote five prayers: a 'Tweet' prayer (maximum 140 characters), some opening words, some closing words, a prayer on the theme of an address, and our own versions of the Lord's Prayer. I was blown away by the quality of other people's prayers - all different, but all heartfelt and real.

Here is my 'Tweet' prayer: Spirit of Life and Love, May we live our lives in a spirit of compassion, that we might leave the world a better place than we found it Amen


And it wasn't such a big deal after all. The lesson I've taken from yesterday is that sharing the risk of doing something with others makes it easier and safer to try something new, and the benefits can be huge.