Writing Through the Blocks

I can't think of anything to write about today.

I'm flat, and I'm feeling restless.

I had a writing teacher who always said that if you're feeling blocked to write through it. It was Natalie Goldberg, and she teaches a method she calls "writing practice." You take a prompt and write for ten minutes. And then you do it again and again and again with new prompts. For as long as you've committed to write. At least an hour or two in a sitting. 

There are a few rules. The first is to keep writing. Your pen can't leave the page and you can't stop to think. A second is that you can't cross anything out. Set a timer. After ten minutes you do it again with another prompt. I've filled several journals with this kind of writing and it's some of my richest work. 

When I studied with her, we worked in groups of five or six, agreeing on a prompt, writing, and then reading our work. And then we did it again. And went on like that for a couple of hours at a time. We did not critique each other's work; we simply witnessed. It was safe space to venture into places we might not otherwise have gone with our writing, and a container like that opens up some interesting avenues of response that are filled with empathy and compassion. We weren't worried about the technical aspects of the work; we simply listened to the stories held by the writing. 

It's what writers do. Listen for stories. Catch stories. Put them on paper.

I am often curious about the things that capture my attention from various teachers. With Natalie it was writing through blocks. When she first started talking about it, I thought it was a little counter-intuitive. I thought to myself, "A block is a block. It means you have nowhere to go and nothing to write." Someone in the retreat where she talked about this even asked her to say more about how to keep your pen moving if you think you have nothing to write about. She said to write, "I feel blocked" over and over again if that's all you think you can say. Or to write, "I don't feel like I have anything to say." Eventually something else will come. It might be something about why you feel you have nothing to say about whatever it is you've agreed to write about. You might even discover something about yourself in the wastelands of "I don't think I have anything to say" or "I feel blocked."

You need to show up. And that's how a writer shows up for her writing. By writing though the blocks. By being willing to walk through what she thinks are empty landscapes in her own experience or her own thinking or her own abilities, to discover what might be on the other side of what she thinks she cannot see. 

Wow. Look at that. I'm writing. Through the blocks. And it was a block that enabled me to get in touch with something I needed to remember today. That I've been showing up for myself in ways that have surprised me. The interesting thing is, when we are able to show up for ourselves in one way, space opens up for us to show up for ourselves in other ways. 

More treasure.   




The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months of thriving. The goal at the end is to have a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

Ripples on the Water

I'm thinking about suicide today.

This, after the news that Anthony Bourdain was found in his hotel room. Dead. At age 61. Only a few days ago, Kate Spade was found at home. Dead. At age 55. I can't help but wonder what drives a person to end his or her life, especially one who seems to have everything in life. At least all the good things people seem to want out of life. Money, success, family, fame, respect, talent. And so much more. 

Makes me sad.

It also has me thinking about my own life and how fortunate I feel to be a person who does not feel driven to end my life. There is no judgment here. There is some curiosity, and a great deal of compassion. At times I feel some melancholy. At times I feel some futility. At times I feel lonely. At times I feel like a failure. At times I feel guilt and shame around the occasions when I do not live up to the expectations I have for myself, or when I've hurt someone, or when I've looked away while another person is struggling, or around other circumstances in my life that I am perfectly happy not to disclose.

The human struggle.

As I ponder these things I also remember so many things that bring joy. I got together with friends this evening. We had a great time together. We have a strong friendship and a trustworthy bond. Yesterday I got together with a peer group for a regular meeting around the work we do, work that is highly specialized, stressful, and challenging. I appreciate those folks more than I can say and am grateful to be part of such a powerful and compassionate camaraderie. The day before, I met with the young, hipster musician at the church I am currently working with. He is talented, creative, and courageous. He brings so much to the church and I'm pretty sure they understand how fortunate they are to have him. He composes music and creates amazing arrangements and improvisations. They clap when he plays in worship. I like that about them. 

He loves that I am a poet and has shared that he'd like to get his hands on some of my poetry. Wants to set it to music. At our meeting Wednesday, I shared that one of the poems in my collection is actually a song. And that I'd created a melody as well as the poetry. He wanted to hear the song and asked me to sing it. Call me crazy, but I did. Then he asked if I'd sing it again and if he could record me. I did that too. He photographed the page in the print proof with the poem and told me he wanted to create some music for it. 

A day later he sent me a music file with some music that took my breath away. He said it was "just rough" and hoped that I like it. 

Like it? It's amazing. I had to stop more than once in the last couple of days to remember that my poem inspired such beautiful music. His brilliance and creativity enabled him to dream a completely new work of art into being, out of the art I had created. He mentioned as an aside that he was gathering musicians and thinks he found a vocalist. I'm excited to see what comes of this. To see what art might be born from this collaboration.

I bought some beautiful peonies and freesia today. Someone suggested that I do something nice for myself and that is what I chose. She wanted me to have a reminder of how special I am and suggested that, all too often, we forget ourselves. She wanted me to remember myself. And since I live alone, it can be easy to not remember. To get busy and distracted and to forget to be kind to myself. She reminded me that I need to do that for myself because I no longer have a life partner to mirror what is unique and lovable about me.  

I listened to a TED talk today that featured the fourth director of the Harvard longitudinal study on happiness. The outcome of the 75-year study is that the quality of our relationships is what makes for a happy, fulfilling life. I've also been listening to a summit featuring speakers who are experts in working with people with trauma. Each of them, so far, has noted that it is not the so-called "traumatic event" that creates trauma, but how we respond or react to it that determines our relationship with it.

There's that word again. Relationship. 

There is so much to reflect on with regard to relationships. Any connection we have to anything or anyone or anywhere is a relationship. As I think about just that one thing, the image of tossing a pebble into a pond and watching the ripples move out over the surface of the water comes up for me. 

I've completed a week and a day of the Summer of Self-Love. I have kept my word to myself that I would write every day. A new relationship with writing is developing and it feels potent to me. It's the same kind of power that I notice when I watch ripples moving out across the water after the simple, but powerful, act of releasing a stone and knowing that, through that, I have created movement. 

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months of thriving. The goal at the end is to have a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

Looking Forward to the Bloom

It was just a little thing.

A little something that started my day with a tone that carried through a long day away from home, first at a meeting for work, one that took me dangerously close to the Art Museum. I drive an hour for the meeting. Each way. The meeting is two hours. The thought of going to the meeting and then driving back home straightaway seemed, oh I don't know, it seemed a little disappointing. So I stopped in at the Art Museum for a couple of hours to check out the new exhibition on Modern American Art. It was the loving thing to do. 

And it was wonderful.

I think it might have been that little thing, first thing in the morning, that little thing that reminded me about the tiny results we often fail to notice but that are there nonetheless. I think it was that little thing that set the tone for my day and encouraged me to remember myself. And my need for expansive experiences, for beauty, for a detour to tend my soul. 

I was up with the sunrise and opening up the house. I love the morning air just after dawn. It is cool and fresh. The light is soft. There is wild color in the sky. I walk through the house, bringing up the shades and opening the windows. Sometimes turning on the window fans to bring in fresh air and carry away any stale energy. 

My attention was caught by a small cyclamen I have in the living room. She was beautiful. Lush foliage. Deep green leaves. It was only a few days ago that I was wondering if I'd still have her at the end of the week. She had seemed to be in a malaise. Buds that dried up, wilted, and never opened. Brown leaves around the bottom. It looked like there might be too few healthy leaves for her to survive, much less thrive. 

I took her into the kitchen and gave her a good soaking. I cut away the dead leaves and buds. She seemed a shadow of her former self. She looked like she had been neglected. Had I somehow missed something? All the other plants looked great and I couldn't help wondering what was going on with her. I think I even asked her. I don't understand what happened to the buds, which only last week had come up. I'd been looking forward to the bloom. And when I set her back on the shelf, I wasn't sure whether she'd bounce back.

She was a new expression of herself today. And it took my breath away.

I marveled at how something so simple as a bit of pruning could make such a huge difference. And it got me thinking about my own resilience and about the power of shedding what no longer is alive for me. About how holding on to what is dead can actually make us less vibrant and threaten our thriving. Once pruned, there is more room for healthy new growth.

And she did not disappoint. I wouldn't be surprised if we see some blossoming soon.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months of thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

Maybe I'll Just Take Another Look

And there it is. 

I hit "publish" on Sunday's post and up popped up the writing that disappeared off the screen only an hour before. It popped up as a draft. Apparently I did not know where to look for it, although I could swear that I did look there. Maybe I went in to re-write too quickly. Maybe I panicked. Nothing good ever comes of panic. Maybe it just is what it is. 

I reread it and looked longingly at it and thought about adapting the published post and then just decided to let it rest. Maybe someday I'll work it into another piece of writing about dancing with "what might have been," or maybe I'll work it into some other writing when something else that might be triggered by that story comes up for me, but for now I will leave it in the queue as a reminder of something.

I'm still not quite sure what the lesson is, but I suspect there are many lessons in this.

And there certainly are a lot of maybes in this writing. 

Maybe there's a lesson around maybe. 

I originally began this writing piece moments after I published Sunday's writing and discovered the draft that, until then, had remained hidden. But I decided to let this one rest also. As I was thinking about today's writing, this little beginning kept scratching at the edges of my consciousness. It could be that because I have a long day at work today, I wanted to see if I can write quickly around this because it's already started and in process (in me, as well as on the screen) or it could be something else. I began to catalog the possibilities but stopped short when I realized. There it is again, in different words, but there nonetheless. Maybe.

The Oxford Dictionary defines maybe in two ways. As an adverb and as a noun. As an adverb, it means "perhaps, possibly." And as a noun, it means "a mere possibility or probability." Mere. The same dictionary offers these synonyms for mere: trifling, meager, bare, trivial, paltry. There is nothing "mere" about possibility.

Possibility is what gives creativity form. It is what makes potential real. And in potential is power. Just look at the word itself. Potent. From the Latin. "Having or wielding force, authority, or influence." That's from Merriam-Webster. "Powerful, able, capable, possible." Another dictionary takes us back to where we began. With possibility.

There just might be some power in the word "maybe." ("There just might be" is another way to say "maybe", by the way.) Normally, when I think of the word "maybe," I think of it as lacking precision or decision. There may be power also in that space of "not yet." And, of course, it is the power of possibility, of potential, of spaciousness. Of choice. 

I feel like I've stumbled onto another dusty box in the attic. I've just peeked inside. It looks full to me. Full of tiny treasures that will take time to go through, examine, and value. I gather it up and allow it to rest with the other artifacts of this Summer of Self-Love exploration.  

Long days at work limit the time I have on those mornings to luxuriate over this writing and allow what comes up to rest a bit before continuing. But, maybe, that's as it should be. Some things take longer to rest than others. And they come back into consciousness when they want to be worked again.

So maybe I'll...

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.   

Musings after Sunset

I definitely have a good time to write and a less-than-good time to write. 

Earlier, rather than later, is better for me. 

But today I was having such a great day, I saved the writing for the late evening. It's not quite nighttime. The sun has just gone down and the sky is darkening. Bed calls. 

And, yet, I've committed to writing every day.

I need to think about this because there are days that I'm busy with work and other things, and it could be easy to get to the end of the day and decide I'm too tired to write. 

What a great love lesson this is. 

How do we take care of ourselves and schedule our days so that we are able to do the things that are most alive for us?

My problem today was that I spent the whole day doing all kinds of things that were life-giving for me. What a great problem to have. I'm laughing at myself as I write. May all my days be so afflicted. 

The sun was shining. Big, puffy white clouds moved across blue skies. It was in the mid-70s and not muggy at all. And after a weather forecast that suggested a fourth consecutive week of cloud and rain, this was a magnificent surprise. I woke up without a headache. That's a rare treat these days. I was craving chicken soup and had the ingredients to make it. I was craving a great salad and had the ingredients to make that also. I love to cook so that was really fun. And the house smelled great. 

I spent the morning doing research and listening to podcasts. I love to learn and enjoy doing research about something I care about. Actually, I was researching self-love. I was curious about what people had to say about it. It was just a preliminary study, but a week ago I probably would have rolled my eyes reading these articles. I haven't talked about that yet. My subtle suspicion around the whole topic of self-love. I'll get to it someday, but a preview would be something like -- once upon a time, talking about self-love, images of Stuart Smalley would come to mind. And I might have judged the whole topic to be "hokey."

Maybe I had a little shadow energy tied up in my reactions.

The day continued with a trip to my fabulous hair stylist. He works his magic and I always feel beautiful when he's done with me. I also feel ready to take on the world. The conversation is worth the trip any day and I miss the days when my hair was very short and I saw him once a month. Today we cut off about six inches and I am feeling lighter. It's great to shed what is no longer working.

I hope I can take that wisdom into my de-cluttering projects at home. So far, it's been off and on. Truth be told, I've gotten rid of so much stuff I'm surprised I still have anything left. And that may be why these remaining projects are so difficult. It's all the stuff I think I can't live without. I can feel my body tightening up as I type. And I'm telling myself to relax because there is not a box or black trash bag in sight. I'm just writing. 

Just writing.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harvesting three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

Some Sun Breaks Through this Morning

How wonderful!

It immediately lifted my spirits but, with the headache, I wore sunglasses while washing dishes this morning. I must have been a sight. I've been experiencing a low-grade depression lately, more of a melancholia, really. Too many headaches, three weeks with grey skies and rain, another week of cloud and rain in the weather forecast, returning after a wonder-filled trip abroad just a month ago. Not having enough time to rest and recalibrate before the seemingly endless demands at work. An intense week at a homiletics festival, where we seemed drowned in the sadness of the world rather than in the ways God meets us in the human condition, what we call the Gospel. Good News. It's so easy to point to what's hard, to what's sad, to what grieves the heart or even breaks it. But it's powerful to be able to point to the ways we are met with grace and compassion in those hard places of experience.

Like in the sermon I preached yesterday. A beautiful image. A withered hand reaching toward a hand offering grace. And the space between them. That's where the magic happens. In the spaces between.

I woke with a tremendous headache this morning. Used a hot, wet compress on my face, a cold compress on the back of my neck. A shower to soften tight, hard muscles throughout my head, neck, back, and shoulders. I broke down and took a decongestant and an anti-inflammatory. Laid down, got back up. Laid down again. Basic management and deep tending to myself. The decision to not jump right up and hit the ground running today. Some grace for myself -- and some space to listen to my body and to notice what it wants to show me.

What's been withered in my experience? How am I, or have I been, operating with only one hand? That's a metaphor, of course. 

I think back to the story that formed the ground of my preaching yesterday, a story from Mark's gospel. Jesus heals on the Sabbath. It's so interesting because a person with a withered hand in that culture automatically lives outside the community. You needed both hands because they each serve a specific purpose. With the right, you eat from the common dish and engage in intimate touch with those you love. Like touching the cheek of a child or a lover, reaching over to hold the hand of someone who is struggling with something or simply because the touch and connection feel good. There's also all the social functions and exchanges that require the use of a hand, the right hand only. The left hand was reserved for personal hygiene and would never have been welcome in the common dish or in expressions of affection. So to have a withered hand, to lose the use of one of these important functions of life, engagement with others or self-care, a person like that is in deep need of healing.

And there's irony in the story because everyone is supposed to rest on the Sabbath. Built right into the story is a conflict around when and how to take care of the self and others.

Lifting up the story every now and then invites reflection around what might be withering in our lives. We need both - love expressed toward others and love expressed toward ourselves, self-love. So often, one tends to suffer in favor of the other. Either we ignore our own deep needs or we become so self-absorbed we fail to see, much less engage deeply with, the other.

It feels to me like there's treasure here. Like I've stumbled across a dusty old chest in the attic. I want to open it up and to explore what might be inside. Dust off the jewels and notice how they shine. 

It's a good thing the sun came out for a little while. It lets me see what's sparkling and what is dull and lifeless. A glimpse of sunshine seems to be the space between cloud and storm that have filled our days around here for a month. 

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.   

Allowing Inspiration to Move Through

I feel like a whole new woman today.

There's something empowering about making a decision and beginning something new. I'm not saying I'm going to feel this way every day on this journey, but today I do, and I'll take it and enjoy it. And notice.

It's important to notice. 

Right now, I'm noticing something very different than I was five minutes ago. And it's making for an entirely different piece of writing. I just made an amateurish mistake. Did not save my work, and suddenly the entire 500 words I'd just written completely disappeared off the screen. Poof. Gone.

I'd been writing about the peace of the day. And about noticing those moments because we don't always have them. The writing was poetic and beautiful and I just spent the last several minutes trying to recreate it. And becoming frustrated in the process. Normally Blogger saves as we go. I've never lost writing in the middle of creating a post here. I was in the flow. I had not planned the direction of the writing, I was simply allowing inspiration to move through me. 

Still, there is a "save" button up there on the right and I didn't use it. But perhaps that writing had been for me alone and perhaps there is something else that wants to be shared today. And all of that needs to be okay.

Looking out my window, I notice the lush, green foliage moving with the breeze and ribbons of cloud beyond. They are grey, white, and lavender today. Everything is soft and cool. The afternoon is quiet and there are no power tools singing in my neighbors' yards. When I began this Summer of Self-Love daily writing practice, I decided to give myself the weekend to be gentle with myself, to rest and to prepare. The busyness of the coming week will come quickly enough. I have some challenges to work through over the next few months and, while I jumped right into the writing practice, I don't need to drive myself relentlessly into the other work. It's important to take some time before setting out to rest and to reflect. To think about what you might need to make the journey well.

Last year on one of my desert explorations, I found myself in soft sand. I had to dig my car out and the only tool I had for the job was my foot. I have a great foot, and it got the job done, but I found myself in an unanticipated situation after having taken an unexpected turn down a road I'd not prepared myself to travel but wanted to explore nevertheless. I won't go out into the desert again without a small, pack-able shovel. They're easy to find in any outfitting store. They're easy to carry. And when you need one, you're glad you have it. It's not as obvious a needful thing in the desert as water is, but it's one life lesson I'll never forget. 

Tomorrow is Monday. New adventures await.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed on June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.