I had been trying to get back into the swing of writing consistently, plopping down 300 words a day in front of all of you, following Anne Lamott’s suggestion to just get them on the page. Every day I was stumbling along obediently, in true teacher fashion, modeling what I hoped my students would do — dump out the story; clean it up later.
I wasn’t liking any of what I was writing, but I believed that if I kept at it, I would eventually get some gold.
About that time, the group of ladies that I meet with for breakfast suggested that we begin reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. I wasn’t with them when they made the decision, but I got a text with the title that the others had chosen. We’ve read many books together already: Ann Voskamp’s The Broken Way, Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark, and Brene’ Brown’s Braving the Wilderness among them. We often make our selection based on a hunch one of us has that a book going to be good. Without fail, each of the books has served almost as a guide to the narratives of our individual lives — just the thing we needed to hear at a particular time.
For example, when we read The Broken Way, one of us was walking her mother through her last days, another was hearing for the first time the brutal details of a horrible event in a family member’s history, and another was learning that her husband’s cancer had returned. We were collectively broken, and Ann Voskamp helped us not run from it, but sit in it.
We read Braving the Wilderness against the backdrop of a highly divided nation and discussed how we could be open to conversations with people who don’t agree with us and how we must be brave enough to do this crucial work.
We’ve come to expect that when one of us suggests a book, we should all just jump on board because each of the books we’ve read have guided our conversations and shaped our hearts. Over and over, in the space of a morning-dark living room, we have together been changed.
So why, when I got the text about The Artist’s Way did I turn up my nose? Well, besides being stubborn by nature, I hadn’t heard the reason for this choice. And, to be honest, the word ‘artist’ in the title came with a whole bunch of associations that I didn’t feel connected to. Finally, my work schedule had been such that I figured, “Yeah, maybe my season with this group is done. This one probably isn’t for me.”
And so I didn’t buy the book. I just kept tossing out three hundred words a day like magical seeds that might one day sprout into something.
Then a few weeks later, one Sunday morning at church, one of my breakfast club friends said, “Aren’t you loving this book? I can’t believe how much I love all the writing!”
“The writing?” I said. “I’ve gotta admit, I haven’t bought the book yet, what kind of writing are you talking about?”
“Oh, my gosh, you’ll love it! You have to commit to writing three pages every morning. I keep getting up in the middle of the night, and I can’t believe all the things I’m putting on the page.”
As she’s talking, I’m opening the Amazon app on my phone, searching for the title, and clicking “purchase”.
“Really? I didn’t know it involved writing. I guess I thought it was going to be about art.”
“No! It’s about the artist inside of all of us. Oh, Kristin, you’ve got to read this book. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it.”
“Well, I just purchased it. So, I’ll start this week.”
And then the book arrived. I opened to the introduction, because I’m one of those people who reads introductions, and I just didn’t like the tone of the author. She sounded very know-it-ally, and I just couldn’t. So I set the book on the table next to where I usually write and walked away.
For a week I didn’t write anything. Granted, we were busy at work and I didn’t have a lot of steam left when I got home, and getting up extra early in the morning seemed out of the question.
Until I found myself writing this around 2am:
Technically it’s morning. It’s the middle of the night. Up with pain and brain again. I grumbled about this book today — didn’t want to get it in the first place — dumb title. Irrelevant. Then the self-important tone of the intro made me want my money back. But I’m not even through the first chapter and I know that Julie Cameron is right. If I write — actually write — three pages every morning, I will create an opening.
And I started getting up every day at 5:45 — yes, 5:45 — to use a pen and a notebook to write at least three pages. And, like my friend, I’ve been amazed at what has shown up on the page. I’m not censoring, because I’m not writing for an audience. Instead, I am letting whatever is in me come out. Some days I’m writing about things long past. Other days I’m scratching out my current to-do list. I’m writing anger and anxiety and regret and sadness and hope and prayer. I’m filling my second spiral notebook with no intention of accomplishing anything other than creating an opening.
I met with the breakfast club girls this week. Four of the five of us are writing these pages each morning (or sometimes in the middle of the night). The one who isn’t said, “So, you’re writing?” And the rest of us practically pushed each other out of the way to share how profound the experience has been. Then, I sheepishly admitted, “I’m only on chapter two of the actual reading.” Surely by now, I thought, two months later, everyone else would be almost finished with the book.
“Me, too!” one said.
“I’m only on chapter four,” said another.
And it dawned on me — getting through the book is not the point. This book is not about finishing, it’s about being open to the process. And that is the message of relevance this time around. Just like every other book we’ve read, this one is speaking into our individual narratives. One of us is learning how to be a widow. Another is walking into retirement in a new home in a new community. One is about to become a grandmother for the first time. Another is navigating the comings and goings of young adult children. Me? I’m discovering after thinking that my professional career was over, that I might just have another round in me.
We’re all in phases that aren’t really about arriving or finishing; they are more about being, practicing, living, and breathing through the process.
So, it’s 6:32 am, and I’m spending this morning’s time to reflect, because, writing three pages every morning isn’t so magical that I can’t take a break to put my fingers on keys. I’ve created enough space to see that I can allow myself space. And that is some kind of gold.
In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.