Writing

I felt for the first time today that writing in and of itself does not satisfy. I don't mean in the self-expressive, passionate sense that I dwelled so much on yesterday, but in the realm of reality itself.

I truly believe that I am only satisfied in Christ. The satisfying element of writing to express myself is in how it connects me to the Holy Spirit and in turn to Christ Himself. So to the Spiritually alert Christian all roads may not lead to Rome, but to Christ. In the sense that Paul wrote of the permissible versus the beneficial, I enjoy writing to the extent that it benefits my spirit's intimacy with Christ.

So thank You, Lord, that I do not write in vain.

When I trust the Lord, I find that I am satisfied also to know dissatisfaction; there is some peace that comes with holding ever so loosely to this world. When I am tempted into finding satisfaction (perhaps fulfilment is more accurate) in this world, I sense that I am turning to face the future with Jesus behind me. I glance back at Him with the slightest struggle in my conscience, knowing somewhere inside that this can't be what I was made for. Yet I plug on convinced that I must join the elite who have found worldly success.

Now I think back and remember returning home from Kona, Hawaii where I spent a week with Rory at YWAM before we were married. I journaled like a mad woman, like the artists I described yesterday who had something so deep within that they would burst if it did not reach the surface. I journaled because the Lord was working within me and there was not conversation enough to satisfy. It had to be putting pen to paper, putting vision to actuality.

The Lord was stirring inside me a desire for hanging laundry out to dry on a clothesline--both literally and metaphorically. A clothesline to me represents poverty. He was stirring inside me a contentment with a future of poverty.

But not poverty as in a mercy's poverty who suffers for the Lord. Poverty as in one of my greatest fears. I knew poverty to mean misery as a young girl, and I wanted nothing of the misery I had experienced. In my simple understanding, I believed that wealth would dematerialize misery.

Untrue.

But fear is never based on reality, is it?

By reconciling me to using a clothesline, no, not reconciling, but rather freeing me to use a clothesline, I was able to release my hold on wealth as a means of satisfaction. In fact, wealth became dissatisfying as a means to fulfilment. When I see myself at the clothesline I am face to face with the Lord, not glancing back, but all around me.

If the Lord is now going to show me how dissatisfying it is to write (again not in the expressive sense, but in the career path to success sense), then let the freedom come! I am afraid because I have held tight to the notion that I should be successful and prove much of my education. But then again fear is never based in reality.

Another woman

Well here I am almost a year later and guess what? I am still writing for free.

But I still like writing. And my husband. And my life. In fact, I am learning to like all three of those more and more everyday.

I read (er, scanned) a book today at Barnes & Noble that spoke directly to me. Clearly a prophet, the woman writing the book addressed her work to everyone who wanted to write. It was a how-to manual of sorts that wasn't in the Self-Improvement section though probably should have been. I almost bought it but then second-guessed myself.

Like an English author I studied in college, I wonder about the role of my own writing, knowing that the ultimate work of expression already exists: the Bible. What can be added? What can be left to say?

Nothing. A resounding, cement block of nothing.

Do I then seek to interpret? I don't want to play Holy Spirit, though. I hardly want to teach at all after understanding the standard teachers are held to. If anything, I would enjoy encouraging others. Not as an exhorter, but in my own prophet-highly-influenced-by-an-exhorter-husband-and-mother way. I do like to write.

The author I wrote of earlier believes (like Blake but in a less eccentric way) that creativity comes from within, the Holy Spirit she says. And while I don't think that I am a god at the core, I know that the Holy Spirit as a form of God does live within me.

Not due to any merit or worth of my own, but because I have been forgiven. I have been accepted by God to the degree that he changed everything to adpot me into his already complete family. And I do think that I agree with her when she proclaims that that spiritual creativity is dying to be expressed.

spiritual creativity is dying to be expressed

She used Van Gogh, Bach, and Blake all as examples of artists using their creativity to glorify God. Whether it be by paint, music, or word each artist was awed by creation to the extent that they had to share their experiences. Interestingly, none of the aforementioned artists worked for financial profit. They simply had to let their love out.

She wrote that Van Gogh made no more than a hundred and so dollars in his life. Do you know how he got into painting? He was in seminary writing a letter to his beloved younger brother and was so touched by the scene outside of his window he had to share it with his brother. So he painstakenly drew the scene as accurately as he could at the bottom of the letter. And it was beautiful. Because he had been commissioned? Because he had been touched.

Because he had been commissioned? Because he had been touched

Like the little kids who work their hands and feet to the bone to produce plays for their family and neighbors, artists put more work into their art than any businessman. But they are impassioned to do it and it satisfies something in them so that instead of exhaustion and weariness, they feel encouraged. Even motivated.

She goes on to tell of a violin teacher friend of hers who would teach violin during the day and work tirelessly through the night on her book (she wanted to teach others to play the violin in less time). One day the violinist came over with a cold and when asked if she would like to lie down and take some tea, she scoffed and replied that that was no way to cure a cold.

Apparently the cold had only come upon her because she wasn't writing as furiously and only started to feel better when she went back to writing full force.

This story was used partly to show how our spirits are connected to our body (a connection I fully believe in) and that when the expression of our spirits is in action, our bodies are well. She also addressed the fear and hesitation most people experience in expressing themselves as they age.

when the expression of our spirits is in action, our bodies are well.

She believes it is due to the nature of our schooling and the critical tendencies of other people. Instead of encouraging the school child to continue the thought or pursue the idea further, teachers draw lines and make notes all over papers based on grammatical or other errors. I especially enjoyed this part of the book as she exclaimed, "As if Shakespeare could spell!"

I am so encouraged to know that Shakespeare was not perfect. Not Van Gogh, not Bach, not one of us.

Here I have been so engrossed in staying in touch with my emotions (as the voice of my spirit) to maintain to physical, mental, and spirtiual well-being, and I have been afraid of writing--expressing myself. I have focused on financial profit and market appeal. Ironically, I have found neither!