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 Pointlessness of Regret

 Last Sunday, I came into contact with someone who has now tested positive for the coronavirus. Without thinking, I did a very stupid thing, because I was so pleased to see them - I gave them a brief, sideways, facing away hug. So now I am self-isolating in my own house, trying to keep away from my son and my husband, until next Wednesday. I have ordered a home-testing kit, which came too late yesterday to be done, so I'll be sending it off today.

I have been kicking myself for my idiotic impulsive gesture, but what is the point? I did what I did, and now I may have to pay for it. I don't so much mind for myself, but I am praying with every fibre of my heart that if I do get this horrible virus, I won't pass it on to my two loved ones. Particularly not to my husband, who is diabetic.

Sometimes, we all do things which we later regret. "If only" are probably the two saddest words in the English language. "If only I had..." "If only I hadn't..." But "if only" always comes too late. I guess the only thing we can do is to try to live and act in such a way that we don't end up in the "if only" situation.

Except that, we always, always will. Sometimes it is unavoidable (unlike my mistake). Sometimes, someone we love moves away, leaves us, and we are left with a whole crop of "if onlys" to live with. We will regret all the wasted opportunities to be kinder, all the times we were unkind.

I guess that what I'm saying is, this has taught me a lesson. To be as kind as I can, in my interactions with other people, with other living beings, so that my crop of regrets will be as small as possible.

As my friend Celia writes each day, "stay safe and well."

Embracing the Ordinary

It is in the nature of many of us to strive for perfection, to work fervently towards a particular goal. And it is good that we aim high. But as George Bernard Shaw wrote, "Man can reach the highest peaks, but he cannot stay there long."

It is the nature of humankind to strive, to do our best, to keep moving forward, "onwards and upwards forever" as the old Unitarian maxim had it. Yet because the direction of life is always forward to the future, each time we achieve something, whether it is something small, or something huge, we find that life goes on, regardless. We achieve the goal - whether it is the publication of the book, the qualification, the new job, the new relationship - and then we have to learn to fold it in to our ordinary, everyday lives. Because nobody can live at the peak of emotions for any length of time - first of all, it is exhausting, and second of all, it will set us up for disappointment when we (inevitably) come down.

So what should we do? I believe that we should honour our achievements, our arrival at the peak, but hold them lightly at the same time. There's a lovely passage in C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters, which illustrates this idea beautifully: Screwtape explains that what God wants of us is for us to live in the Present, where time meets eternity. He comments, "To be sure, the Enemy wants men to think of the Future too - just so much as is necessary for now planning the acts of justice or charity which will probably be their duty tomorrow. The duty of planning the morrow's work is today's duty; though its material is borrowed from the future, the duty, like all duties is in the Present... He does not want men to give the Future thier hearts, to place their treasure in it... His ideal is a man who, having worked all day for the good of posterity (if that is his vocation), washes his mind of the whole subject, commits the issue to Heaven, and returns at once to the patience or gratitude demanded by the moment that is passing over him."

He argues that it is the devil's job to make people "hag-ridden by the Future - haunted by visions of an imminent heaven or hell upon earth - ready to break the Enemy's commands in the present if by so doing we make him think he can attain the one or avert the other - dependent for his faith on the success or failure of schemes whose end he will not live to see."

So the trick (I think) is to continue to strive for the highest and best we know, but simultaneously to recognise that moments of high achievement are always, always transitory, and to accept that most of our lives will be lived at a more ordinary level. And that the ordinary (by which I mean our daily lives) is okay. More than okay - it is where we can find contentment.

 

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.

 

The Joy We Give

 It is Christmas Eve. We are coming towards the end of an extraordinary year, full of joys and sorrows. Like Kahlil Gibran, I believe that the two are inextricably linked and that, "when one sits along with you at your board, remember that the other one is asleep upon your bed."

Since the first lockdown began, on 23rd March, there has been much to be sorrowful about - the gatherings missed, the hugs and kisses unexchanged, the family members not seen, the friends lost - especially this last. But there has also been so much joy, so much connection, which has lifted my heart. Unitarians of all stripes have found new ways of staying in touch - via Zoom, via YouTube, via e-mail, via telephone, even via letters and cards. Two in particular stand out for me: Jane Blackall's wonderful Heart and Soul gatherings on Zoom, now also being led by others, have been a lovely way to connect for so many people. She has enabled a true ministry of joy to happen. And Celia Cartwright's daily Ruminations on Facebook, recording the joys and sorrows of the year, another faithful ministry. Reading them each day has been a real spiritual pick-me-up for me and for many others.

For myself, when I have joined Zoom gatherings, it has been so good to talk to other people, both friends and strangers, to see well-loved faces and to make new friends. I am very much looking forward to joining the Unitarian Carol Service via Zoom at 6.30 this evening.

This week's anonymous quotation says, "The more joy we give to other people, the more joy returns to our own hearts." And I have found that this is so, this year. We are social beings and reaching out to others, in whatever way, has been such an important part of this year, which has filled my heart with joy. I have had so many appreciative e-mails from people who have read and listened to my online services, it has warmed my heart. 

There has also been the lovely possibility of "attending" Zoom worship services all over the country and even further afield, which has been another source of joy. I understand that many new folk have attended Unitarian worship for the first time in this way. When we "get back to normal" (probably towards the end of 2021) I hope that these online gatherings will continue, as they have enabled us to reach out to people who would not otherwise cross our thresholds. I am certainly going to carry on producing an online service each week, as many of the congregations in the Midlands only meet twice a month, and I want to offer them some kind of worship on "non-Church" Sundays.

May you all have a blessed and peaceful Christmas, and a better New Year.

We are the Sunbeams

 Yesterday, I had a session with my spiritual director, which was rich and good. And towards the end of it, we spoke of our relationship with God, and he shared the revelation that there is no separation between us and God, "not even the shadow of a hair's breadth".

In the past, I have felt moments of connection with the Divine, whatever we name Him/Her/It. But the idea that there is *no* separation between us was new to me - or maybe I was not ready to receive it before. My spiritual director said that it would take time for this idea to move from my head to my heart, that I would have to sit with it for a long time before I truly experienced it. And I believe that.

But this morning, I was mulling over what he had said, during my morning sit, and these words came to me (the first image came from my director, the rest from me):

God is the sun, we are the sunbeams,

we are emanations of God.

God is the Light within us all,

reflecting and connecting with the Light around us.

God is the water, we are the ripples,

caught up in the Divine Flow.

God is the air, we are the breath,

each breath in, a breath of Life,

each breath out, a breath of Love.

God is the One Tree, we are the branches,

growing out of the Source of Being.

God is the fire, we are the sparks,

lighting up our universe from within.

God is Love, we are lovers,

sharing, caring, healing, understanding.

There is no separation between us,

"not even the shadow of a hair's breadth."

We are working parts of God.

I believe that sitting with this will give me enough purpose and meaning for a lifetime...