Listening to the Call

Yesterday I saw two Canada Geese take flight from the lake. In one moment they were sitting together on the water near other geese, and in the next moment they simultaneously began honking, flapping their wings, and rapidly paddling their feet. Within seconds, their chests emerged completely from the water. Next their stomachs and feet were in the air, and they tucked their feet and legs into the soft of the feathers of their underbellies. Their wings, flapping hard and fast as they rose from the water, slowed to a rhythmic pace. These geese left the lake with seemingly no hesitation, no indecision, and no fear. I’m not sure what motivated them to leave at that time. Moments before they had been eating moss from the bottom of the lake at a leisurely pace. Something inside of them changed, and they knew it was time to take flight.

What would our lives be like if we so readily paid attention to the things that we feel called to do? What stops us? Fear? Indecision? Self-doubt? What would our lives be like if, when we felt called to do something, we simply took flight toward the thing that calls to us? How utterly freeing would it feel to listen to our inner knowing, trust ourselves, and, without hesitation, indecision, or fear, take flight toward that which calls us?

Try writing about something that you feel called to do. What holds you back from moving toward what calls you? What do you imagine your life to be if you took flight toward what is calling you? Write about one step you can take to move closer to your calling.

“Saying yes to the calls tends to place you on a path that half
of yourself thinks doesn’t make a bit of sense, but the other
half knows your life won’t make sense without. This latter
part, continually pushing out from within us with a centrifugal
force, keeps driving us toward authenticity, against the tyranny
of fear and inertia and occasionally reason, against terrific odds,
and against the knocking in our hearts that signals the hour.”

—Gregg Levoy, Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life

Deep Listening

This weekend there were two unusual visitors on the lake—a male Redhead and a male Greater Scaup. These ducks seem to have arrived together, and they have stayed together for the past two days now. I wonder how they chose this place, why they have made a temporary home here, and how they will choose their next place.

What is it that makes a place feel like home? A year ago I owned a lovely bungalow with so many windows throughout that each room was always full of light, even on cloudy days. Two of the walls in my writing room were filled with windows that opened out over the back yard so that I could hear the morning song of the song sparrow and the steady splash of water from the fountain in the koi pond. After writing for several hours, I embarked on my daily walk through the flower garden in the front. There was no front yard, per se. The front lawn had been replaced by a marble walkway that wound through an untamed perennial garden that the previous owners had planted. I developed a rhythm of home in that place—writing, working, and tending the garden. I moved out of one and into the next with an ease that felt like home. The garden provided a daily dose of sacred for me with the miracle of something new appearing at least once a week from March through October—daffodils, bearded iris, grape hyacinth, Asian lilies, four-o’clocks, poppies, roses, zinnias, tulips, sunflowers, and choreopsis. The garden turned every day into a mystical journey, and as I wound my way through, I recalled memory after memory of planting flowers with my mother as a child.

The house and garden were a dream come true, but as each day passed, my spirit spoke louder and louder that this was not my place. I knew in my heart that I would never feel at home in the city that surrounded my home. After two years, I sold the house and moved on in an attempt to find a larger sense of place and home. I still grieve the loss of that house and garden, but I know that it was time to let go. When something isn’t quite right, there’s a sense of freedom and expansiveness that comes with opening up to more of what we want in our worlds.

Listen deeply to yourself. Try writing about something that you know you need to let go. Write about how you imagine your life to be on the other side of the letting go.

Sacred Space

Writers can learn to write any time, anywhere. I developed this skill myself several years ago. I practiced writing after breakfast, before bed, while riding on the metro train, and while waiting in the airport. Once I even wrote an entire chapter while sitting through a mandatory campus wide faculty meeting. I learned that I could, indeed, write any time, anywhere. It’s a useful skill, I suppose, when simply getting the writing done is the goal.

The experience of writing in all of those places taught me about what’s really important to me in my writing practice. It taught me that while I am able to write anywhere, I prefer to write in places that feed and nurture my spirit. It’s not merely the act of filling a page with meaningful words that keeps me picking up my pen. It’s the experience of settling into a place that invokes the sacred that keeps me longing to come back to writing again and again. For me, and invocation of the sacred creates a feeling of a sense of place, a sense of home. When I’m in my office, it’s the experience of surrounding myself with objects that are sacred to me—my father’s mahogany desk chair, my mahogany spinet desk, my inkwell collection, and bird feathers—that evokes a sense of the sacred. It’s watching the warmth of the first rays of morning sunlight hover for a few moments as golden before shifting to something more closely resembling white. It’s noticing how the sunlight strikes my inkwell collection at different times of the day, how it creates different colors as it moves through the glass, and how it makes shadows that change shapes as the sun moves.

Evoking a sense of the sacred in every day is essential for me in my writing practice. My sacred writing space changes, depending upon where I am and how I’m feeling. When I’m in New York, it may be a quaint little café near Washington Square, or it may be Central Park or Prospect Park that invokes the sacred. When I’m away from the city and wanting to be outdoors, sitting by a lake or on top of a mountain creates a sense of the sacred for me. Being in a space that invokes a sense of the sacred and that also provides a view of the outer world nurtures me as I take that daily inner journey with language. If I’m not indoors, sitting by a window that affords a view of the landscape is vital. Julia Cameron in Walking In This World: The Practical Art of Creativity writes, “Artists have stared out of windows and into their souls for a very long time. It is something in the staring-out that enables us to do the looking-in.” It is in the landscape that I find my soul reflected back to me.

This week create a sacred space in which to do your writing, however small. Pick 2 favorite objects that evoke a sense of the sacred for you, and keep them close by. Write about what it is about the experience of writing that keeps you coming back to it again and again.