The conversation started innocently enough with "What was your major in college?" I'd never met the man, but he was visiting in our church one afternoon. He was a charming, elderly fellow and brilliant musician. (And listening to him and one of my congregants as I worked on my sermon was probably the highlight of my day.) But he'd asked a question, and I owed him an answer. I told him that my major in college was English, hoping the conversation might stop there. "Oh, that's simply marvelous", he said. "Literature? Poetry? Technical Writing?", he wanted to know. But it's not any of those things. I majored in creative writing, and had to tell him so, knowing the next inevitable question. "And do you write?"
Well, there's the million dollar question. "Oh, these days, my creative writing is mostly sermons and newsletter articles. God has a funny sense of humor-- because this isn't what I had in mind when I chose my major, but I'd guess it's creative enough." I'd blamed my lack of writing on God's funny sense of humor--as if that answered anything at all. But the wise man saw through it. "Creative? Yes. But enough? I can see in your eyes that it isn't."
Huh.
Maybe it's time. I finished up a big writing assignment in June, and I was kind of burnt out after that. The assignment, though I was honored to be invited to do it, was much harder than I expected. It was a huge blow to my writing ego. And I was just done for a while. (As evidenced by my complete lack of blogging since April or whenever it was.) But maybe it's time again. The need deep within my soul is coming back.
The problem is that once I start, I can't seem to stop.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, August 19, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Never the twain shall meet
"OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet..." (Rudyard Kipling)
I'd additionally argue that "Preaching is preaching, and writing is writing", now being equally certain that these would never meet up. Seems like they should, as both obviously use words. But, perhaps the similarities end there.
For years, I wrote well. I edited major projects. I wrote for a paper. When my assignments were returned, they had fewer red marks than did the papers of my peers. I knew all the rules for commas, and could give you the definition for an appositive without even thinking about it. I'd even look down my snobby little nose at people who didn't know the difference between "they're", "their", and "there".
These days I write for the ear, which has entirely different rules. Commas are thrown in somewhat lacksidaisically in places that I'd pause if I were speaking. I don't mind "flowery" language because it helps paint pictures. And I've become amazingly fond of adverbs.
People that have watched me grow into my role as a preacher like to tell me what a difference they see in my sermons. I've worked on and studied the craft of preaching, just as I once did with the craft of writing. And I can no longer make a clear, concise, grammatically correct sentence.
Never the twain shall meet indeed...
I'd additionally argue that "Preaching is preaching, and writing is writing", now being equally certain that these would never meet up. Seems like they should, as both obviously use words. But, perhaps the similarities end there.
For years, I wrote well. I edited major projects. I wrote for a paper. When my assignments were returned, they had fewer red marks than did the papers of my peers. I knew all the rules for commas, and could give you the definition for an appositive without even thinking about it. I'd even look down my snobby little nose at people who didn't know the difference between "they're", "their", and "there".
These days I write for the ear, which has entirely different rules. Commas are thrown in somewhat lacksidaisically in places that I'd pause if I were speaking. I don't mind "flowery" language because it helps paint pictures. And I've become amazingly fond of adverbs.
People that have watched me grow into my role as a preacher like to tell me what a difference they see in my sermons. I've worked on and studied the craft of preaching, just as I once did with the craft of writing. And I can no longer make a clear, concise, grammatically correct sentence.
Never the twain shall meet indeed...
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Rediscovering a lost art
If you've read many of these posts, you've probably seen me whining about wanting to be a writer more than once. That's the thing that keeps nagging at my soul-- I want to write. Oh yes, I love being a pastor. But my soul seems to need to write.
I've been reading through Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird" again, and attempting (again) to work my way through "The Artist's Way". Lamotte reminded me about the joy (and need to write) short assignments. The same week, Cameron challenged me to make time to write by sending out a few handwritten thank you notes or other pieces of correspondance. Two hints in a week was enough to get my brain rolling. Well, that, and I've been actively looking for ways to use my unique gifts as a female pastor to bring fruitfulness to my ministry.
So it dawned on me (finally) that somehow, all these things are working together. And I've been writing notes, lots and lots of notes throughout the last month. I've sent thank you cards to parishioners who have done something above and beyond around the church. I've hand-drawn birthday cards and other things. I've carefully done calligraphy of applicable bible verses on the fronts of cards to say "I'm praying for you." I've sent cards to people in whose eyes I can do no wrong, just because they make me smile. And I've sent cards to people who pray that I'll leave the church soon, because they are both against me as a female pastor and as a person. I've sent cards as attempts at peacemaking, as a way of recognizing someone's contribution to our life together, as mobile prayers. There is something about receiving a note that perks up your day-- just knowing a person took the time to think of you, write something down, and then hunt down your address and a stamp means a lot.
And strangely, every time I write a thank-you note (even for something small) I find that my own gratefulness has increased. As I send a "praying for you" card, I am the one that is blessed. As I wish someone a Happy Birthday, my own day is happier. And I find that my soul is fed because I am writing, because I am being creative (which is something for someone who used to do tons of drawing and art, but hasn't in years.)
Of course, email is easier. But there's still an awful lot to be said about finding a hand penned note in your mailbox. Today, I'll trade convenience for tending souls...mine, and theirs.
I've been reading through Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird" again, and attempting (again) to work my way through "The Artist's Way". Lamotte reminded me about the joy (and need to write) short assignments. The same week, Cameron challenged me to make time to write by sending out a few handwritten thank you notes or other pieces of correspondance. Two hints in a week was enough to get my brain rolling. Well, that, and I've been actively looking for ways to use my unique gifts as a female pastor to bring fruitfulness to my ministry.
So it dawned on me (finally) that somehow, all these things are working together. And I've been writing notes, lots and lots of notes throughout the last month. I've sent thank you cards to parishioners who have done something above and beyond around the church. I've hand-drawn birthday cards and other things. I've carefully done calligraphy of applicable bible verses on the fronts of cards to say "I'm praying for you." I've sent cards to people in whose eyes I can do no wrong, just because they make me smile. And I've sent cards to people who pray that I'll leave the church soon, because they are both against me as a female pastor and as a person. I've sent cards as attempts at peacemaking, as a way of recognizing someone's contribution to our life together, as mobile prayers. There is something about receiving a note that perks up your day-- just knowing a person took the time to think of you, write something down, and then hunt down your address and a stamp means a lot.
And strangely, every time I write a thank-you note (even for something small) I find that my own gratefulness has increased. As I send a "praying for you" card, I am the one that is blessed. As I wish someone a Happy Birthday, my own day is happier. And I find that my soul is fed because I am writing, because I am being creative (which is something for someone who used to do tons of drawing and art, but hasn't in years.)
Of course, email is easier. But there's still an awful lot to be said about finding a hand penned note in your mailbox. Today, I'll trade convenience for tending souls...mine, and theirs.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
A View from the Last Day
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
I feel like I should say something, anything for that matter. After all, I've been at a conference about writing-- about WORDS! for crying out loud. I've prayed with the monks, and feasted with my colleagues, both on so much food, and more satisfyingly on collegiality. I've been inspired, both by the setting and by the stories, told both formally and in little "pods" of conversation along the way. I've met the sunrise, and I've felt the wind blow through the open-air chapel by the lake.
But something has blown through me too. A need. A desire. A thirst. A fear. A hope. A word. I leave carrying more than I brought: books, and mugs, and folders... and ideas and hopes and dreams. Not everything will fit in my now-too-small suitcase, and it, like my brain, is now overstuffed. I'll make a clumsy traveler, but no one will be able to find fault with all the things I've grabbed ahold of to take home.
So here I am at the last day, and the view is spectacular. Not just of a last look at a lake, but of a last look...for now, anyway, at my colleagues who will certainly do great things. The view is also a look forward, to the plane that will return me to my beloved, to a life that I might now dare to find.
I feel like I should say something, anything for that matter. After all, I've been at a conference about writing-- about WORDS! for crying out loud. I've prayed with the monks, and feasted with my colleagues, both on so much food, and more satisfyingly on collegiality. I've been inspired, both by the setting and by the stories, told both formally and in little "pods" of conversation along the way. I've met the sunrise, and I've felt the wind blow through the open-air chapel by the lake.
But something has blown through me too. A need. A desire. A thirst. A fear. A hope. A word. I leave carrying more than I brought: books, and mugs, and folders... and ideas and hopes and dreams. Not everything will fit in my now-too-small suitcase, and it, like my brain, is now overstuffed. I'll make a clumsy traveler, but no one will be able to find fault with all the things I've grabbed ahold of to take home.
So here I am at the last day, and the view is spectacular. Not just of a last look at a lake, but of a last look...for now, anyway, at my colleagues who will certainly do great things. The view is also a look forward, to the plane that will return me to my beloved, to a life that I might now dare to find.
The Greatest Fear
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us." (Marianne Williamson)
I've not been willing to admit this to myself, but in a lot of ways, I'm afraid to write. That sounds dumb, but for me it's risky. For me, I think, it's the thing I've always wanted to do. It's not that I'm afraid I'll start writing and won't like it, but rather that I'm afraid I'll like it too much. I fear not that I'll be rejected but that I'll be accepted-- which will in turn necessitate more and more writing. I'm afraid that I might just get lost in a world of words, and have a hard time coming back to reality.
I've been telling myself that "they" won't let me write. They who? The church who wants all my attention. The sermon who must be preached, week after week. The triathlon who isn't getting trained for. The quilt, who cries out to be finished. My puppy who doesn't understand "I'm busy." My husband who doesn't want to hear "I'm busy."
But, it turns out that maybe "I" am the "they."
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us." (Marianne Williamson)
I've not been willing to admit this to myself, but in a lot of ways, I'm afraid to write. That sounds dumb, but for me it's risky. For me, I think, it's the thing I've always wanted to do. It's not that I'm afraid I'll start writing and won't like it, but rather that I'm afraid I'll like it too much. I fear not that I'll be rejected but that I'll be accepted-- which will in turn necessitate more and more writing. I'm afraid that I might just get lost in a world of words, and have a hard time coming back to reality.
I've been telling myself that "they" won't let me write. They who? The church who wants all my attention. The sermon who must be preached, week after week. The triathlon who isn't getting trained for. The quilt, who cries out to be finished. My puppy who doesn't understand "I'm busy." My husband who doesn't want to hear "I'm busy."
But, it turns out that maybe "I" am the "they."
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Lost and Found
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
As I've been here, we've stayed really busy. When I looked at the schedule, I imagined that we would have much time to think and write and pray. But in reality this hasn't been the case. So the other night, when the schedule made it look like we had a free night, I was thrilled. But then after dinner, we were told to sit so we could all "talk". (As if we hadn't been doing enough talking... my inner introvert is running around screaming.) And worse than that, before we could start talking, we were going to sing a few hymns as a group. I'm not sure I'd been thrilled about that even if I could sing, but I can't, so mostly I just mouthed the words so that nobody would know.
But then, of course, someone suggested our last song be Amazing Grace. This song makes me weep anyway, but on this particular night, when we got to the line "I once was lost but now I'm found", something in me broke open. Not that I've never had the sense of being found, but more often than not, I feel lost. But at that moment, I knew that right then anyway, I was found. Something in me was found
As I've been here, we've stayed really busy. When I looked at the schedule, I imagined that we would have much time to think and write and pray. But in reality this hasn't been the case. So the other night, when the schedule made it look like we had a free night, I was thrilled. But then after dinner, we were told to sit so we could all "talk". (As if we hadn't been doing enough talking... my inner introvert is running around screaming.) And worse than that, before we could start talking, we were going to sing a few hymns as a group. I'm not sure I'd been thrilled about that even if I could sing, but I can't, so mostly I just mouthed the words so that nobody would know.
But then, of course, someone suggested our last song be Amazing Grace. This song makes me weep anyway, but on this particular night, when we got to the line "I once was lost but now I'm found", something in me broke open. Not that I've never had the sense of being found, but more often than not, I feel lost. But at that moment, I knew that right then anyway, I was found. Something in me was found
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
What is Home?
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
Every afternoon, we are asked to do a free-write using a particular prompt. Here's what came out of yesterday's question: What is Home?
My home looks like the love of my life-- like waking up next to my snoring, farting soul mate-- the one I've chosen to be with for life. It looks like a place that is really lived in, with dirty socks littering the floor of most rooms, and the remains of whatever we scrounged (because it's likely that I didn't cook) for dinner last night still on the coffee table.
My home smells like dog. It smells like a boxer mutt who played in the mud puddle that she shouldn't have. It smells like the beagle that's more exactly built like a pig-- who just wants to lie down, be loved, and grow old.
My home feels like a cat who's so soft that his fur might make a delightful pair of knitted pair of socks. It feels like a hungry cat who is convinced that if she pretends to adore you just enough, you will immediately jump up to attend her every need.
Today, my home feels far away. Today I miss my snoring soulmate, and wish I could bring him into this world I've stumbled into. But this world is not home.
WHen I return home, things will be different. I'll be different. I'll have more "things" to put in my home: a heart more attuned to its desires, a dream unstuck.
Every afternoon, we are asked to do a free-write using a particular prompt. Here's what came out of yesterday's question: What is Home?
My home looks like the love of my life-- like waking up next to my snoring, farting soul mate-- the one I've chosen to be with for life. It looks like a place that is really lived in, with dirty socks littering the floor of most rooms, and the remains of whatever we scrounged (because it's likely that I didn't cook) for dinner last night still on the coffee table.
My home smells like dog. It smells like a boxer mutt who played in the mud puddle that she shouldn't have. It smells like the beagle that's more exactly built like a pig-- who just wants to lie down, be loved, and grow old.
My home feels like a cat who's so soft that his fur might make a delightful pair of knitted pair of socks. It feels like a hungry cat who is convinced that if she pretends to adore you just enough, you will immediately jump up to attend her every need.
Today, my home feels far away. Today I miss my snoring soulmate, and wish I could bring him into this world I've stumbled into. But this world is not home.
WHen I return home, things will be different. I'll be different. I'll have more "things" to put in my home: a heart more attuned to its desires, a dream unstuck.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Chosen
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
"We assume that you're all great writers or you wouldn't be here. You have been carefully chosen because we at the Institute believe you have something to say, and we want to give you the space to say it."
Those were some of the opening remarks made to us at our orientation last night. We were told that the twelve of us were selected from a large number of applications. Well, that's enough to give a girl a big head.
But more than that, it's enough to give a girl (or guy) a sense of purpose. I'm a Presbyterian-- one of our big things is that God calls us to things. Certainly I've been called by God to be a minister (because...ummm...well... that wasn't my plan!) But the idea that someone else senses a purpose for you gives, at least me, a kick in the pants.
The idea that someone believes that I have something worth saying, something that I should be putting out in to the world is more than I have yet been able to believe. It might be the answer to the prayer I've never had the courage to pray-- and it terrifies me. It humbles me. And it makes me dream.
"We assume that you're all great writers or you wouldn't be here. You have been carefully chosen because we at the Institute believe you have something to say, and we want to give you the space to say it."
Those were some of the opening remarks made to us at our orientation last night. We were told that the twelve of us were selected from a large number of applications. Well, that's enough to give a girl a big head.
But more than that, it's enough to give a girl (or guy) a sense of purpose. I'm a Presbyterian-- one of our big things is that God calls us to things. Certainly I've been called by God to be a minister (because...ummm...well... that wasn't my plan!) But the idea that someone else senses a purpose for you gives, at least me, a kick in the pants.
The idea that someone believes that I have something worth saying, something that I should be putting out in to the world is more than I have yet been able to believe. It might be the answer to the prayer I've never had the courage to pray-- and it terrifies me. It humbles me. And it makes me dream.
Your name precedes you...
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
One of the very odd things that I've experienced at the conference so far is that my name (or at least my work) has preceded me. Long before I ever met any of these colleagues, they had my work in their hands, just as I had theirs in my hands. They made judgements about me, about my situation, about my talent as I writer just as I made those same judgements about them. And then, suddenly, we're all face to face, and there is no more hiding behind a cloak of anonymity.
The work that we've submitted has to stand on its own (as it should). You can't attach caviats to it or make excuses for it. You can't change the words, or pretend that they just accidentally lept on your page. You've got to stand behind it, and let people come to know you through it. You've got to own it, and put up a brave front that you are ok with the fact that those words are on the page because you put them there. Willingly. Consciously. Unapologetically.
"Will they laugh at me?" you wonder. "Will they see the truth-- that I'm a child, a novice, someone just running words together on a page? Will they think my story is worth telling, or might they secretly think they could have more fun digging for 'gold' in their nose than reading my work."
It's a vulnerable, naked feeling.
One of the very odd things that I've experienced at the conference so far is that my name (or at least my work) has preceded me. Long before I ever met any of these colleagues, they had my work in their hands, just as I had theirs in my hands. They made judgements about me, about my situation, about my talent as I writer just as I made those same judgements about them. And then, suddenly, we're all face to face, and there is no more hiding behind a cloak of anonymity.
The work that we've submitted has to stand on its own (as it should). You can't attach caviats to it or make excuses for it. You can't change the words, or pretend that they just accidentally lept on your page. You've got to stand behind it, and let people come to know you through it. You've got to own it, and put up a brave front that you are ok with the fact that those words are on the page because you put them there. Willingly. Consciously. Unapologetically.
"Will they laugh at me?" you wonder. "Will they see the truth-- that I'm a child, a novice, someone just running words together on a page? Will they think my story is worth telling, or might they secretly think they could have more fun digging for 'gold' in their nose than reading my work."
It's a vulnerable, naked feeling.
Prayer for the day
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
A prayer as I'm trying to figure out what it is to be both a writer and a pastor-- as I realize that I'm tired and burned out, but that there is still a longing in me for something more.
God, make me a vessel. Set me on fire.
Remind me of my calling, reignite my flame.
Give me a voice, and something worth saying.
Wake me up--today.
And again tomorrow,
and tomorrow's tomorrow.
Amen
A prayer as I'm trying to figure out what it is to be both a writer and a pastor-- as I realize that I'm tired and burned out, but that there is still a longing in me for something more.
God, make me a vessel. Set me on fire.
Remind me of my calling, reignite my flame.
Give me a voice, and something worth saying.
Wake me up--today.
And again tomorrow,
and tomorrow's tomorrow.
Amen
Word Eruption
[Thoughts from the conference where I'll be this week: Writing and the Pastoral Life. I'm in rural Minnesota, at St. John's University and Abbey]
I woke up this morning with words, with a prayer of thanksgiving on my lips. I woke up with this almost violent need to write. Write what? Who knows? Write how? Does it matter? I might just have scribbled on napkins if I had to.
I'm afraid that what I've been afraid of all along is coming true: that once I start, once I allow myself to write-- I might never stop. That the yearning in my own soul to give rise to words might just overtake me, and might change my life forever. I'm afraid that the words might ask something of me, call me to a challenge that I might not yet be ready to rise to.
I went on a five mile hike this morning-- and the blessed peacefulness and silence almost overcame me. But the silence was overcome by words: lots and lots of them about all sorts of things. Perhaps these words have been here all along, but there are so many other words that are always bombarding me that I can't hear my own.
And if there is too much noise for me to hear my own words, imagine how hard it is to hear The Word. The Word which shocks, and surprises, and interrupts, and changes, and is. The life giving Word that sometimes I'm too busy to hear.
I woke up this morning with words, with a prayer of thanksgiving on my lips. I woke up with this almost violent need to write. Write what? Who knows? Write how? Does it matter? I might just have scribbled on napkins if I had to.
I'm afraid that what I've been afraid of all along is coming true: that once I start, once I allow myself to write-- I might never stop. That the yearning in my own soul to give rise to words might just overtake me, and might change my life forever. I'm afraid that the words might ask something of me, call me to a challenge that I might not yet be ready to rise to.
I went on a five mile hike this morning-- and the blessed peacefulness and silence almost overcame me. But the silence was overcome by words: lots and lots of them about all sorts of things. Perhaps these words have been here all along, but there are so many other words that are always bombarding me that I can't hear my own.
And if there is too much noise for me to hear my own words, imagine how hard it is to hear The Word. The Word which shocks, and surprises, and interrupts, and changes, and is. The life giving Word that sometimes I'm too busy to hear.
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