A Life Profound

Found this bit of writing today. It is from an exercise in Writing Alone and with Others by Pat Schneider. The exercise was to write about a bad writing experience. Pat Schneider says that most people suffer a bad writing experience in school and many never write after that. This is the free write from that exercise.

I started my highschool career taking AP courses, advanced placement. Why? Because I had great grades in junior highschool and everyone said that is what I should do. No thought to what I wanted to do, just the counselor noting my good grades, assuming that I was smart, intelligent and placed me on a AP track. I wasn’t smart or intelligent . . . well, I was, in a way. I had figured out that it was all a game. I figured out what the teachers wanted and gave them that. Of course, this does nothing to feed the soul, to nurture the creator in me, it just was all nonsense and I think I felt like if this was such a huge part of my life, then all of life was just nonsense. There was no sense of real purpose.

Anyway, back to the AP track. I ended up dropping out of the AP program because I couldn’t keep up with the math. I struggled in math and I couldn’t be in AP just in English and literature, I had to be in AP on both tracks. So, when I dropped out, I had already taken 3 years of advanced English/literature and I had to have another year. So, just to fulfill the requirement, I was placed in the sophomore English class during my Senior year after three years of advanced placement.

I remember that we had to write a paper describing how to do something. I cannot remember what that is called, there is a specific name for it though. I wrote about how to make a great cake. It was a stupid paper. Really, it was. But, it received an A and the teacher read it aloud. I just remember thinking how stupid it was. . . it wasn’t written from the heart, it was written to fulfill a requirement. I lost my purpose in writing that day. There it is, there is the bad experience. Writing had been relegated to just a to do . . . just something to get a grade . . . I could do that and I could do it well … but what real purpose was there? How was this going to make a difference. How was this going to change the world.

That year was a turning point for me. I didn’t write much poetry after that. I didn’t write much at all. I was tired of the game. Throughout the years, I have written very infrequently in journals . .. mostly while working through very dark and traumatic times. It really was only as I began to post on bulletin boards online that I began to be encouraged that my writing could make a difference. People would comment that I could express myself eloquently, that they loved to read what I had to say. I began to see a purpose again.

However, this is the demon that I battle. Still, I don’t see it sometimes. I don’t see the purpose. I am just writing what has already been said, I don’t have anything to say, the guidelines are not so strict, I don’t know how to fulfill the requirement here. It takes me out of myself and I have to trust in my own ability, my own gift, my own work, my own talent.

I am discovering the power of words. I am discovering how to use them to make a difference, to have an impact. I am discovering that I have something to say and it may be the same thing that someone else has to say but no one can say what I have to say like me. I have a unique voice, a unique perspective, I do have something to offer.

Wounds from the school experience. They took this wild child, this introspective individual and tried to make her something that was not, that she is not. They tried to make her fit into the crowd, to become the shape of the box, and she did because she needed the affirmation, she needed the acceptance, she was looking for something.

If there had been just one person who believed, who knew how to dream, who knew how to let the imagination run wild . . . who would I be now. But, no lamenting; lamenting comes to no good. It is just wasted time. The past is in the past and what worked for the past will not work for the future.

I am created on the image of God, the creator. I am a creator as well. Capable of creating beauty, of conveying wisdom and knowledge. I can create beauty with dance, with images, with words. There is power here, power that I never knew before.

Hold this power in your reins Lord, you guide it, you steer it, you direct it. I want it to be all for your glory, for you honor. I want you to find pleasure in me, your creation. Ultimately, all that I create is inspired by you, you are in me, you breathe in me, I breathe in you . .. you abide in me and I abide in you, everything that is within me is of you.

Even the question, even the question. The world may have tried to conform me to itself, to its definition of success but I know that I am in the will of the Lord. Questions are good. It is okay to ask the question, even the questions rise up to the Lord, not as a rebel, not in contention, but in stretching, in growing, it is the prophet, I have not learned to recognize it, to operate in it. Lord, I pray that I do. I want to be walking in fullness, in abundance in the giftings that you have given. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name.

Immersed in the Mystery,

I have been on that cycle again … not writing, feeling guilty about not writing, trying to get back up and get started. My consolation is that I am recovering more quickly and am more frequently sitting down to write. Today was a an exercise in silencing the critics of our writing. I was surprised when I faced my enemy. Though I resisted this exercise for quite a while, I am glad I did it. God brought restoration and vision.

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The darkness of the room is pressing down on me, heavy and thick. I am alone, sitting on the floor, leaning against the door. I must keep them out. I cannot let them come after me again. Tears stream down my face and my breath comes in gasps as I hear them approaching. I am defenseless against their arsenal and I know they have loaded their weapons and are moving toward the room, quietly, sneaking, planning their attack. My heart is racing and I am internally screaming, “NO!!”” There is no escape, no where to run, no where to hide. My only option is to sit and wait.

The voices start with a whisper. “You cannot do this. You are not a writer. A writer writes books, is published, is paid. You have nothing. You are too scared to even submit anything and scared you should be because it is all garbage, a mish mash of words that make no sense.” Louder, the voices continue. “You have nothing to say. No one cares about your opinion and it isn’t even your opinion anyway but borrowed words from other people. There is nothing left for you to say. It has all been said. Why do you think that anyone wants to read your words, your ramblings. It is boring drivel” Screaming now, the voices rising, each syllable punching me. “You are lazy and can’t stick with it any way. This is just a waste of your time. There are other things you should be doing. You are trying to string a few sentences together and believe that that it can make a difference in anyone’s life. Are you CRAZY?! No body cares about what you have to say! You are nothing, Nothing, NOTHING!”

I am crumpled on the floor, weak from the assault. Panting fills the room … are they still here? Slowly, the realization breaks through my battered mind … there was only one voice. Only one voice. Who? Who hates me so much? Who would seek to destroy me? With effort, I open my swollen eyes to try and identify my enemy. Alone. I am alone but the breathing echoes in my ears. I whip my head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the unseen foe … no one is there. Slowly, I bring myself to my knees and reach up to find the lightswitch. A touch and the blinding light fills the room and I recoil in pain. Within a few moments, my eyes adjust and I slowly start searching the room, trying to convince myself that someone IS there. I was attacked. I find no one.

In my panic, I turn toward the dresser to brace myself and look into the mirror and a familiar voice yells, “Where are you?!?!?!” It’s me. I am my own foe, my own enemy, my own critic. No one has ever stood before me and crushed my words, except me. How can this be? How can I be drawn toward this desire to write, to communicate, to paint my soul with strokes of letters and at the same time tear it down, with smashing blows of a sledge hammer.

I lay my head on folded arms and weep, great heaving of my heart, painfully confused. Minutes pass and the sobs subside and I become aware of a presence, holding me up, embracing me, stroking my hair.

The voice of my Lord says, “You are not the enemy. There is but one enemy and he comes like a thief, to steal, kill and destroy. The voice you hear is not your own voice but the voice of Satan. He seeks to destroy the very gift I have given you.”

“Your words are not your own; they are my gift to you. Every good gift is from above, from my glorious riches. I created you. I formed you for a purpose, with work in mind for you. The enemy stalks you to prevent you from doing my will.”

“You can do this because I created you to do this and you can do all things through me. I am your strength. You are a writer now and will always be a writer, whether published or not because you write and you write because I created you to write. Without me, you ARE nothing … but with me, you are my beloved, you are everything.”

“Your words are not drivel. They are the words that I have given you. You ARE fearful but without reason. I have not give you this fear. Don’t listen to the enemy anymore. Your writing must be submitted to me first then I will decide what needs to be done with it. You may be published. You may not. Don’t worry about that. I want you to write for me. It’s not garbage. It is my gift given back to me, a sacrifice of praise, glorifying me. It is beautiful.”

“You do have something to say because I have written the message on your heart. Just say what I have given you to say. I care and that is all that matters. But, others care too. Solomon said that there is nothing new under the sun and he was right but it hasn’t been said with your voice. That is what makes it unique, your voice that I have given you.”

“You aren’t not sticking with it because of laziness. You are not sticking with it because you have believed the lies of the enemy. It is not a waste of your time to do what I have called you to do … yes, there are other things to do but this is important because I say it is important. It makes me smile. It pleases me. Don’t you want to please me? And why are you so concerned about making a difference? That is not your job. Let go of that weight. Serve me. Love me. Be obedient to me. I will take care of making the difference, ok? Again, I remind you that without me, you ARE nothing. Don’t walk away from me. I am your shelter from the enemy, your strong tower, your refuge. I will protect you. I am everything and that’s all you need to know.”

I slump in surrender to the truth. I am tired but ecstatic with victory. There is power in knowing, in identifying the enemy. I know that I am not alone and that I can rest in the shadow of the almighty. I know that I am in His will, living out His purpose when I am writing. There is no call to publish x amount of books, just to write. Stay in that process of writing and let God worry about the product, the results. It all belongs to Him anyway.

Immersed in the Mystery,