Category: Writing

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Burning inside of me

I continue to work on unearthing the story that burns within me. Some might think I am simply grieving out loud and there may be some truth in that. But each time I sit down and write, summoning the story of my son so as to share it with others, something burns deep inside of me. Am I trying to make sense of his death? No. That is futile and I am not interested in some quasi-therapeutic act that in the end would be simply wasting time. Am I wanting to anoint him for sainthood? God no. He was far from a saint. I’ve seen too many people do that to those who die. The faults and struggles and dysfunctions are glossed over to create someone who never existed. I am not going to do that. Yet something is burning inside of me.

Today as I reflected in my book about the way Joseph was different I remembered a story. It was a story of forgiveness. A story that he reflected on in a journal that he kept as a 12 year old. He had money stolen from him by a faceless, nameless thief. One might expect him to share his anger or hurt or the injustice of it. He did none of that. Instead he shared his sense of forgiveness toward those that had wronged him.

That’s Joseph. His story burns inside me. The world needs to hear it. That tangled-headed, dred-locked son of mine was a man of love and heart and forgiveness. He was far from perfect and while named after a saint, will never take his place along side the stained-glassed saints of the past. But he continues to speak. I cannot keep him alive by sharing his story but I can tell the story of how the world was just a little bit better because he lived in it.

His story burns inside me.

Until next time,

DP

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Lucy Kaplansky

Folk music. I’ve always liked to listen to it but I am far from an aficionado. Part of my affinity rests in my childhood. Certainly I am not a child of the sixties, I was too young to claim that. But I do remember the music. I was drawn to a young Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and older artists like Woody Guthrie. It must have soaked into my soul.

I have season tickets to the Lied Center in Lawrence. I bought the folk music series that beckon me out of my easy chair periodically to go to the Pavilion at the Lied. I went last night to hear an artist (Lucy Kaplansky) that I had never heard. The short of it is this: I was blown away by her artistry and reminded why folk music connects to my heart.

The musicianship would have been enough to have made for a fantastic evening. She is a fabulous guitar and mandolin player. But it was the lyrics that drew me completely into the moment. Better, it was the story behind the lyrics. If music has a connection to literature, it is because both come from a place of authentic struggle. Sometimes the struggle has a happy ending but more profoundly, often there is no resolution, just emotion. Raw emotion.

Last night I heard songs that ranged from a story about a bar where she met her husband, to stories about her daughter, a friend who disappeared due to an unresolved disagreement, and her dog who loved to look at the moon at night. I found myself suspended from time and place as I was invited into the mystery of life, love, friendship and ambiguity. I felt love, anger, joy and hope. I felt life.

I would recommend you follow Lucy on social media. Listen to her music. Perhaps, like me, you will be drawn into the mystery we call life and emerge changed. Lucy Kaplansky is an artist worth hearing. I was challenged and encouraged and left a different person than I was when I arrived.

Lucy can be found on FaceBook at LucyKaplansky. Com

Until next time,

DP

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Destiny

“To do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing, to contemplate the beautiful thing: that is enough for one man’s life.”
― T.S. Eliot, The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism

I played it safe for most of my life. I have lived in a “self-protective” mode. Don’t do anything or push too hard. There is too much to lose. What if I said something that would cause people to not like me? Or worse, what if people got so worked up they wanted to get rid of me? What would I do?

I am blessed to still be young enough to change the course of my life. That’s what I am doing. No longer do I care if someone doesn’t like me. It is not that I am trying to piss people off but that is no longer a concern. As Eliot says above, to say the courageous thing as well as contemplate the beautiful is a life well lived. Perhaps it is also the path toward the useful thing. I do not want to squander the opportunity. To live in this way is to embrace the fullness of the gift of life we have been given. No one remembers playing it safe as one leaves this world. I am not sure I want to dive out of an airplane, unleashing a parachute at the right moment. But that may be a metaphor for the call which I am discerning as I move forward.

I was offered an opportunity last night to consider writing a Christian-based political column. To do so will focus my energy toward the courageous. But that is the door through which one makes a life. I am blessed to decide that I will no longer remain quiet. I will say the courageous thing. To do so I will also contemplate the beautiful. After all that is where courage begins. And that is also the only way to do the useful.

Until next time,

DP

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How you doing?

I was asked recently, “so how’s it going?” That’s an interesting question. “It’s going well,” would be the obvious answer but I don’t like the obvious. I thought about my family. Yes, they’re well, though my grandchildren seem to fight viruses on a fairly regular basis. I thought about Julie. Though she recently had to fight an intestinal bug herself, she’s doing well too. My mind quickly shifted to my exercise regimen. Yes that’s going well. I’ve learned to wear a swimming cap during my daily lap swim so my hair isn’t going “bleached blond.” That is going well. My diet? Yes. What else? My social media presence? Well I deleted that for the time being so the inherent hassles of an internet footprint have been temporarily eliminated. All good.

Oh my writing. Let me you in on something I’ve discovered. I hoped this was the case but I am increasingly aware of something that makes demands on me. I am supposed to write. Yes. I am called to be a writer. Weird isn’t it. I mean who talks that way?

When I was serving in the Episcopal Church that kind of talk was expected. Who would want to be a priest unless she was “called?” There’s too much to deal with to do it on a lark. There are a lot of other ways to draw a paycheck than dealing with Vestry meetings, recalcitrant staff members and the complaints of parishioners. I suppose it might surprise some that there are a few folks who actually end up being ordained but never felt “called.” But I’ll leave that for another post.

What do I mean that I am called to write? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? After all the book I am writing isn’t finished. So what. I’ve actually learned a lot these past few months that the process of writing is more important than the end result. Oh the end result will come. Eventually. But setting side a time each day to engage in the act of writing has revealed something incredible. A writer’s greatest challenge is the writing itself. Oh you knew that already? It took me sometime to understand but I am grateful that the Muse (or my subconscious?) finally decided to let me in on the secret.

So my journey continues. Do I feel qualified for this journey? Yes. Faulkner weighed in on this when he said: “A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination- any two of which, at time any one of which- can supply the lack of others.”- William Faulkner (from a 1956 interview with The Paris Review).

Thank God. I have all three of those attributes on my resume.

Until next time,

DP

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Oh Muse, Where are you?

Oh Steven Pressfield, how dare you! You rattled my cages in your book The War of Art. Resistance is the biggest challenge of of a writer or so you claim. How I wish you were wrong. But I know Resistance only too well and you have spoken the truth.

Writing is a divine act. So O Muse I need your to smile on me. Wait, leave the smiles somewhere else. I need to be poked. And also inspired. Pressfield uncovered the work of the Muse. Read it here: https://stevenpressfield.com/2013/10/you-as-the-muse-sees-you/

But Dan Jeffries interpreted the invocation here: O’ Muse: http://meuploads.com/2011/10/07/my-prayer-to-the-muses/

And so I make it my own. Resistance I have an ally. You will not win this battle. So Muse do what you do and do it today:

May I prove worthy of your inspiration and strength today,
As I write,
Let your song sustain me,
And my passion go with me,
Giving rise to insight and understanding,
Allow my spirit and body to work in harmony,
Let me see beyond myself,
And into the true nature of the stars,
Let my daily life dissolve,
And grant me freedom from distraction and fear,
Guide my every day,
So that I may always find the time to do my real work,
I ask only for the opportunity
Of open doors,
So I might walk through and serve your will,
I let go of tomorrow and her seductive whispers,
I think not of the fruits of my labor,
But of the labor alone as my reward,
Help me let go of outcomes and focus on now,
Let my mind drop away so my true awareness flows through,
Protect me as I wade into the seething creative fires,
So I am not consumed,
Above all let me perceive purpose in pain and adversity,
And see the will of the spirits at work,
Rather than the illusion of divine malevolence,
So that I might create something worthy of your favor,
And give meaning to my sacrifice.