I was in a writing slump.
Winter had been productive for me. I had revised several chapters in my memoir and assumed that trend would continue as the snow melted. That was the plan anyway, but, instead, I found all sorts of reasons to stay away from my desk or to do other tasks at my desk.
When I shared my doubts with my writing group about continuing this project, they expressed hopes I wouldn't do that, but also listened to the ambivalence I was feeling.
In the past when I have hit a writing bump, usually because my calendar is too full, I am eager to regain focus and return to a writing routine, but, much to my surprise, that was not the case this time. I was enjoying an easier schedule and lighter days. I even wondered what it would be like to consider myself retired and have more open days.
At the same time I wondered if this slump was an indication that I needed to schedule more writing time, to be more intentional and disciplined about time for writing the memoir. I was aware that revising the next chapters required stretches, rather than snatches, of time.
I decided to schedule a solo writing retreat.
My goal for this retreat was to discern if I should recommit to writing my spiritual memoir or if I should let it go. If I decided to
re-engage with this project, my goal was to dive into the next chapter. I brought with me all the writing materials I thought I would need to dig into that chapter, but I also brought a small stack of books to read, in case I dumped the memoir.
I checked into a quiet cabin right on the shore of one of Minnesota's largest lakes, Gull Lake, mid-afternoon. Bruce and I had stayed at that resort, Grand View, in the past, and I knew I would be comfortable there. I quickly unpacked, set up my laptop and printer and spread my books and other materials on the large coffee table. Much to my surprise, I started working right away, re-reading an earlier draft of the current chapter and making some notes for changes. I had a pleasant evening becoming re-acquainted with myself as a writer.
The next morning sealed the deal.
During the night I heard what sounded like sleet pinging on the windows. When I got up to see what was going on, I couldn't see anything. The windows remained dry, and I didn't see any white stuff coming down in the dark.
The next morning when I opened the blinds on the large picture window facing the lake, I was surprised to see large piles of ice mounded on the shore line, masses of chunky ice crystals. The lake itself looked much the same as the day before --still ice-covered for the most part, but with patches of open water. What had happened?
At breakfast my waitress told me this phenomenon is called "the push." The wind, which had increased during the night, had pushed the melting ice toward the shore. The ice crunching sounded like a collapsing tinker toy creation or one of those chandeliers made of crystal-like capris shells disturbed by a light breeze. Almost a wooden sound.
And "the push" continued all day.
And so did I. I pushed myself through the slump, the blocks, the doubts. I viewed the surface of the chapter with new insights and perspectives. I rearranged the structure, knowing this would not be the final version, but was a necessary step to take me from one season to another. By the time I packed up to return home two days later I had completed the chapter and prepared to work on the next one.
Sometimes a push is necessary to crack the status quo.
An Invitation
Are you in need of a "push"? Or can you recall a time in your life when you were pushed and that made all the difference? I would love to know.
NOTE: I am taking a break next week while I am on a solo writing retreat. I will be back on Tuesday, April 30.
For many Notre Dame is a sacred place; a place that inspires thoughts of connection to something, someone bigger than ourselves. A place that lifts us up, even as it may cause us to fall on our knees in humility. A place that shelters and provides sanctuary, but also stirs us to make the world beyond the structure into a better place. A place that draws us to reflection, contemplation, even confession, but also to redemption and action. A place of beauty, of gratitude, of possibility, of history and significance. A place of community and shared pain, but also hope.
Sacred places, it seems to me, speak to us beyond our religious tradition or affiliation. We know when we are in the presence of something sacred. In those places we open to an awareness of creation, including the call to become the persons we were created to be.
How grateful I am for the sacred places I have encountered and experienced during my life, with Notre Dame being one and Chartres Cathedral, where I walked the labyrinth, another. A sacred place, however, doesn't require an oversized building to be revered or doesn't even have to be a building. Instead, a sacred place may be a place in nature--a waterfall, the shores of Lake Superior, a mountain view, a tree in your back yard or a garden you have created. Or perhaps a place that is sacred to you is the hospital room where you held the hand of a loved one who was dying or your grandchild's nursery or a library reading room or even a coffee shop where you are greeted every morning with "Your usual?"
On the civil rights tour we experienced last fall in Alabama and Mississippi we stood on holy ground every day: the bridge where Emmett Till was thrown into the Tallahatchie River; at the base of the steps leading to Alabama's capitol where Martin Luther King, Jr gave his "How long? Not long" speech; the somber National Memorial for Peace and Justice, also known as the "lynching museum;" and many more.
The first time I saw Sweetwater Farm in Chardon, Ohio, I knew it was a sacred place and that we were meant to live there and be its stewards for a period of time. Our years there from 1997 to 2007 were not without significant challenges, but every time I crossed the threshold, going in or coming out, I felt holy breath giving me life. Our job while living there was to add to that sense of divinity, and I hope we did that.
Here's the other thing about a sacred place. It continues to live within you, even when you aren't there. A sacred place continues to form and inform us, even when our lives don't feel very holy. Sometimes we need to be reminded of its gifts, and we need to open to that feeling all over again and perhaps that's what the burning of Notre Dame has done for us.
An Invitation
Where are the sacred places in your life? I would love to know.
I love Sundays.
Here's why:
Sunday begins with worship. How blessed we are to be members of a congregation where we are inspired to live our faith in the world and challenged to continue growing and deepening our practice of faith. This is a place where I find sanctuary when I need it, but also connection to the world outside our doors.
And friendship --for in our few years in this place we have developed so many warm friendships. How wonderful it is to be known, to have community, to share stories and life's ups and downs, and to know this is where I can receive and offer support when needed. At the same time I often have the sense that the next person I greet may become a new and meaningful friend.
Sunday continues with brunch always at the same place, Turtle Bread Bakery, where we can settle into reading the New York Times. I begin with the book review and my husband with the front page. Yes, we are creatures of habit.
Once home I move into the garret where I organize myself for the coming week. I open my bullet journal to the next couple pages and create my calendar and To Do lists for the coming week. Doing that helps me relax into the week. Yes, I see, it will, in fact, be possible to do what I want or need to do. I see the spaces that are open for writing time. I begin to open my heart to the spiritual directees with whom I will meet in the upcoming days. I smile when I think of the happy and special events ahead of me.
This week is Holy Week, and the evenings towards the end of the week are set aside for worship services, and I think about how I want to prepare for them. Extra time for meditation in the mornings, for example.
With my lists made (lists that are added to as the days go by) I often write my Tuesday post--this post--on Sunday afternoon. I don't do that to save time later in the week, although it is nice to know that I have a post prepared before the week really gets underway, but I feel open and refreshed on Sundays. Ideas seem to come more easily on Sundays.
The rest of the afternoon varies--finish reading the paper or read a book. Maybe go for a walk. I remember years past when I was working full-time and our family was young. Sunday afternoons were packed with grocery shopping and doing other errands, as well as house tasks and kid activities. Such a different pace in my life now. Sometimes we have friends or family for dinner on Sunday evening or take my Dad a meal, and I enjoy the preparation for that. On this particular Sunday we are going out for dinner with our family to celebrate my birthday. Now nice is that.
Sunday evening is like most evenings. We find something good to watch on tv, like Masterpiece Mystery, and then to bed at our usual time, knowing another week with all its possibilities and gifts, and perhaps unknown challenges is ahead of us. We are ready.
Sundays offer a certain rhythm. One that agrees with me, a sort of Sabbath time. I hope the ease with which I enter the week brings a bit of calm and receptivity to the coming days. I feel blessed on Sundays, and my intention is to extend my blessings as I move forward from Monday to Saturday.
May your coming week be one of many blessings.
An Invitation
What are your Sundays like? I would love to know.
NOTE: I wrote this post before the tragedy in Paris. I'm sure many of you have memories, as do I, of being at Notre Dame. It is hard to imagine the loss of its presence and my heart aches for the people of Paris and for all those fo whom Notre Dame was a place of pilgrimage, for worship, for solace, for majesty.
We recently learned about the untimely and sudden death of a friend.
She wasn't a close friend, but she was more than an acquaintance. When we thought of her our thoughts were warm ones, friendly ones, often accompanied by an intention. "We must get together with her and her husband soon."
She and her husband moved back to Minnesota -- a city not far from us -- about the same time we returned to Minnesota. For whatever reason we didn't extend an invitation, didn't make definite plans.
It never occurred to us there would not be enough time in the future. And now, thanks to a blog clot that took her life, we will not have that opportunity.
And now, along with being devastated for her family, I am so sad.
I regret that I didn't act on what would have been so easy and more than likely, so pleasant.
"Melissa, I am so sorry didn't I call or email you and say, 'Hey, are you free next week? Let's meet for dinner.'"
"Melissa, I am so sorry I didn't get to know you better."
Regrets come in a variety of sizes and shapes, of course, but for me they are more often wrapped in a package of "what I didn't do," rather than "what I did."
How interesting that the very first chapter in my much-used book, The Gift of Years, Growing Older Gracefully by Joan Chittister is titled "Regret." She calls regret one of the "ghosts of aging," and "the sand trap of the soul," because it tempts us to wallow, to brood, and to sink into the past and "sour the immediate."
I can't bring my friend back, but I can become more aware of the opportunities I have right now to grow friendships and to use my energy and gifts in life-enhancing ways. Chittister views the twinges of regret as an invitation--a "step-over point in life."
The blessing of regret is clear--it brings us,
if we willing to face it head on, to the point of
being present to this new time of life in an
entirely new way. It urges us on to continue
becoming. p. 5
An Invitation
How are you responding to your regrets? I would love to know.
NOTE: The artwork is by Steve Sorman, whose beloved wife Melissa died earlier this month.
What image do you have of something "big"?
Last week we experienced BIG with our grandson Pete. In Duluth we drove along the North Shore and, of course, Lake Superior itself is BIG. Our hotel was on the canal and we watched a BIG ship full of ore glide past our windows.
We toured the railroad museum and the vintage locomotives were BIG.
The 39-room, 2700 square feet Glensheen Mansion, once home to the Congdon family in Duluth was also BIG and quite magnificent.
And then in Ely, MN, we toured both the International Wolf Center and the North American Bear Center, where we met the black bear Ted, who had only recently emerged from hibernation. Before his long winter's sleep he weighed about 700 pounds. I guess you could call that BIG.
Certainly, size is one way to think BIG.
Or I think about what a BIG event (and relief and joy) it was to welcome our 16 year old granddaughter home from 10 days in India traveling with a group from her school.
And the BIG news we received when Pete, who is 11, was awarded an academic scholarship to the school he will begin attending in the fall.
Over the years we've all experienced BIG moments in our lives.
The first time we...
The beginning (or end) of ...
The fulfillment of...
The moment when...
You fill in the blanks.
More and more, however, my BIG moments are smaller and perhaps more tender, more quiet, but no less special.
Here area few of the things that feel BIG to me now:
* Seeing pussywillows, even though drifts of snow remain, as we drove from Duluth to Ely.
* Enjoying a Mother-Daughter dinner.
* Hearing that our daughter-in-love's father has returned home from a few days in the hospital.
* Listening to Maren's stories shared about visiting a girls' school in India.
* Planning a writing retreat for myself.
* Holding the space in prayer as someone walks the labyrinth
* Glancing around our sanctuary during a service and thinking about all the people who have let me into their lives in the short time we have been members.
* Walking into our home, each and every time.
* Sitting in the snug with my husband, sharing space as we read or when we converse.
* Waking up from a good night's rest.
* Bumping into my sister and her friend at an antique show.
* Receiving a chatty email from a friend.
* Seeing a friend who has returned after spending the winter in a warmer climate.
* Chatting with our grandson about his many interests.
* Opening yet another absorbing book.
* Welcoming my spiritual directees into sacred time.
Soon, I hope, I can add seeing tulips emerge from the earth and bringing my lunch to the bistro table in the garden area we call Paris." Even thinking about such events feels BIG.
My list could go on and on.
BIG is not so big anymore. BIG is more the result of opening my eyes and my ears and my heart.
BIG means being present. 
An Invitation
What's on your BIG list these days? I would love to know.
I was in a writing slump. 
