The Gift of Insomnia
Insomnia in small doses is a writer’s best friend. As long as it remains an occasional visitor and leads to quiet, uninterrupted writing time, I welcome it. In this case I brought it on, though not intentionally. I forgot to say “decaf” when I ordered my coffee at 7 PM. I find that I can often fall asleep after an evening coffee, but wake up perky a few hours later (of course if I don’t make up the sleep I will crash at the other end of my day).
I had a revealing exercise in this morning’s wee hours: I dug up a mission statement on my writing that I had written when Gavin was an infant. Eventually, amid cobwebby piles of 3-ring binders, I found two documents that I had nearly forgotten. My personal mission, although I have not consciously referred to it in half a decade, still rings true: To empower seekers to maintain or grow closer to the beliefs that life is good, we are all in this together, and that there is a God. I want the sensuality and sincerity of my writing to bear witness to hope, and to refresh and renew the human spirit. I had also completed a stream-of-consciousness response to the question, “My passion is…”: Living life in full appreciation of the gift it is. Continuing to learn. Being a good steward of what has been given. Being real. Shedding light on true beauty. Offering peace. Writing about all of this in a truly unique, compelling way. Making my son proud.
This resurrection of notes on my mission and my passion revealed two things. The negative aspect of dusting off my ponderings was the realization that I had not honored it enough. The words may be corny, impossibly lofty, but for me they represent what I really give and gain from my writing. These are words that deserve more respect, a place on my office wall. On the positive side, the writing I am doing now resonates with the sentiments I penned years ago. I can hear the harmony between then and now, as if played on invisible strings. This is how I feel purposeful passion. It feels like music.
I flip open a book by Barbara Sher, who wrote I Could Do Anything if I Only Knew What it Was. I saw her on public television once and I loved her no nonsense way of inspiring action. She is not the kind of motivational speaker who lives in la-la land. She understands that people have jobs, financial worries, families and can not just move to a desert island and pursue their dream of painting seaside scenes. She has a way of saying get off your rear and take some action in so many words, and of making it sound completely possible. Today she virtually shouts at me from her book: What you’re really supposed to be doing is whatever makes your heart sing. Another resonant chord is struck. My heart is singing now, and it sang for the last two evenings when I worked on my book, so I guess I should keep writing.
I am plowing through books this morning, looking for a specific quote about the universe conspiring with the artist, about how things have a mysterious way of coming together. And the universe is having its fun with me: I can’t find the quote. But I do find this whammo quote instead, by Frederick Buechner (Of Fiction and Faith):
There is something deep within us, in everybody, that gets buried and distorted and confused and corrupted by what happens to us. But it is there as a source of insight and healing and strength. I think that is where art comes from.
It is nice to search for that something deep and find that it is still there, ready to serve as a wellspring.
For now, though, I must leave the wellspring gurgling below its cover and go back to sleep.
I had a revealing exercise in this morning’s wee hours: I dug up a mission statement on my writing that I had written when Gavin was an infant. Eventually, amid cobwebby piles of 3-ring binders, I found two documents that I had nearly forgotten. My personal mission, although I have not consciously referred to it in half a decade, still rings true: To empower seekers to maintain or grow closer to the beliefs that life is good, we are all in this together, and that there is a God. I want the sensuality and sincerity of my writing to bear witness to hope, and to refresh and renew the human spirit. I had also completed a stream-of-consciousness response to the question, “My passion is…”: Living life in full appreciation of the gift it is. Continuing to learn. Being a good steward of what has been given. Being real. Shedding light on true beauty. Offering peace. Writing about all of this in a truly unique, compelling way. Making my son proud.
This resurrection of notes on my mission and my passion revealed two things. The negative aspect of dusting off my ponderings was the realization that I had not honored it enough. The words may be corny, impossibly lofty, but for me they represent what I really give and gain from my writing. These are words that deserve more respect, a place on my office wall. On the positive side, the writing I am doing now resonates with the sentiments I penned years ago. I can hear the harmony between then and now, as if played on invisible strings. This is how I feel purposeful passion. It feels like music.
I flip open a book by Barbara Sher, who wrote I Could Do Anything if I Only Knew What it Was. I saw her on public television once and I loved her no nonsense way of inspiring action. She is not the kind of motivational speaker who lives in la-la land. She understands that people have jobs, financial worries, families and can not just move to a desert island and pursue their dream of painting seaside scenes. She has a way of saying get off your rear and take some action in so many words, and of making it sound completely possible. Today she virtually shouts at me from her book: What you’re really supposed to be doing is whatever makes your heart sing. Another resonant chord is struck. My heart is singing now, and it sang for the last two evenings when I worked on my book, so I guess I should keep writing.
I am plowing through books this morning, looking for a specific quote about the universe conspiring with the artist, about how things have a mysterious way of coming together. And the universe is having its fun with me: I can’t find the quote. But I do find this whammo quote instead, by Frederick Buechner (Of Fiction and Faith):
There is something deep within us, in everybody, that gets buried and distorted and confused and corrupted by what happens to us. But it is there as a source of insight and healing and strength. I think that is where art comes from.
It is nice to search for that something deep and find that it is still there, ready to serve as a wellspring.
For now, though, I must leave the wellspring gurgling below its cover and go back to sleep.
posted by Katherine H | 2:03 AM
1 Comments:
katherine, thanks - as always - for your comment. and yes, a good suggestion. no one can say enough about being true to the heart and i think you're right to look at inspiration for the answer to my question about the blogging. and WOW - seven months of yours. yes! i admit i haven't kept up. i had to limit many things in my life when the MFA began, mostly to help me focus but also of course to help me manage my time. but i'll always make a point to pop in and check out your page. keep it up!
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