Ash Wednesday

It's Ash Wednesday.

Although nominally I'm still an "Elder," I've been away from the Presbyterian Church for about six years now.

But Lent brings out the wannabe ascetic in me, and for the last couple of days, I've been thinking about what, if anything, I might give up for Lent. I stopped eating poultry in October, so giving up meat of any kind is already taken care of. I could give up fish, but that's no real sacrifice. I've already had chocolate today. And coffee. So too late for those two old favorite candidates.

But really, I know that this year it's not what I need to give up. It's what I need to take up again.

As in, Time.
Time to reflect.
Time to write.

30 minutes a day, minimum. That's my commitment for the Lenten season this year. Me. Alone in my office, 30 minutes every day. Writing. Or meditating. Or praying. The sacrifice of giving myself over to quiet or creativity. Or both.

Blogging more often may keep me honest. You'll notice, perhaps, that I offer no "oh-my-goodness! It's been months since I added a blog entry" apology. (Um. Except for that.) I don't have time for the posturing of regret, that's why.

But here's something I wrote January 16th that I wanted to post. For the record.

It takes a certain amount of ego to be a writer. Or at least, to be the kind of writer that puts her writing out there, for world consumption—whether that is in a blog, or in a poem or essay or novel. It takes enough ego to assume that what you have to say is something that other people want to hear. Or alternately, it’s just as possible that it takes enough ego to not care whether other people want to hear it or not.

Yes, there are usually other forces at work: a love of words and language, for example. Or the drive for examination and reflection, for observation and expression. There’s often a low-level, basic need to use the written word to process one’s thoughts and understand the world.

I’m certainly compelled by this last source of motivation. Writing frees me of the weight of input through the release of output. It clears my brain of clutter and allows me to breathe. It doesn’t mean the rest of the world wants or needs to hear what I’m putting in words. But this worry over other people’s reactions has dictated so much of what I’ve chosen not to do or say in life, I’m starting to feel that no only is it high time I left that concern behind, but in fact I have some making up to do. And an unknown, but certainly shorter-than-before, time in which to do it.

I’m also driven by that love of language. Not so much individual words (although some of them are quite nice) but how they can be used. The right turn of phrase—something unique and startling—can do wonders for me It can make me feel as content as a cat in a slant of sunshine, or as thrilled as John Muir at the top of a tree in a lightning storm. It can instill in me a deep and profound hope in the whole future of the human race.

I’m writing this now because for weeks I’ve been forcing the Muse, bringer of the mood and vision that brings me offerings of insight and vocabulary, to get in line behind everything else. I’ve been moving my hand in a dismissive wave to direct her to go and wait behind the others. Behind work, shuttling children, supervising homework, making meals, offering moral support for the family, going to meetings, paying the bills, walking the dog, sorting socks. The list is extensive, as the Muse could tell you. If I allowed her to speak at all, beyond whispering that the way the winter has exposed hidden bird nests in bare branches warrants a poem, or that walks in the open air are key to a healthy soul.

Certain themes repeat. Like a little string of notes, a melody strung into every movement of a symphony, there are phrases that surface in one’s life that are only distinct from what has come before by the altered circumstances around them. The tug of war between what is necessary because of practical considerations and what is necessary because of spiritual and creative hunger comes up again and again for me. Obviously, someone has to do the dishes. And obviously, even with others helping, sometimes it has to be me.

But because I believe denying myself whatever drive or gift is my birthright may well lead at best to a wasted or bitter life, and at worst to a fatal implosion that will take everyone around me down with me, I’m going to stop and look at the naked nests. I’m going to walk in the open air. I’m going to write.