“Who is this “I” who writes?”, Joyce Carol Oates
It was Friday night when this “I” who writes began to form a blog post in my mind. It was a response to the woman (me) who has been writing the posts of the last month or so, the one who was full of exclamations about New York, and then last week had “Something to say.” I was feeling kind of mad at her. Didn’t like her much. I was feeling the stirrings of wanting/needing to get back to having nothing to say. Nothing to write. Just writing. That seems to be where the “I” who is the writer really gets her chance. That “I” . . . who wanders around in life, who meanders, who watches squirrels and bunnies (and a raccoon just the other day), whose attention is rapt, who watches the sun rise. The one who dwells intimately with herself.
I was dwelling “uncomfortably” with myself, wiggling my shoulders, scratching my head. Then I began to wonder, where does the “I” who is a writer go? Friday. Saturday. Sunday come and almost gone. Still nothing.
So I read a bit through my journal, trying to get an idea. (You see, I am tenacious, and I sincerely believe all creative people are and must be.) When I found this entry, I thought, what the hell, I’ll just share it. Share with you what it’s been like to record the audio of A Course of Love. It turned out to be the perfect thing to do:
May 7, 2015
The moon is hiding out behind the cabin in a spot I’ve never seen it in before. It feels low to the ground. Thankfully I do too. Hiding out. I don’t mind it.
Everyone is down the list from you, Lord. Or from the creative life. They’re so joined that I don’t know the difference. I’m happily reading a book called The Courage to Create, finding Rollo May getting in his own way, and yet still saying things I need. He says creativity is an “encounter.” He talks of how it uses a different side of the brain. How you forget to eat and time disappears. The “survival” mechanism gets turned off! Maybe that’s how artists manage to be poor artists.
In the house, The Embrace is taking forever. I was so happy last week, thinking what used to take me a week was down to three days. Afraid not. I must need to hear the Embrace over and over. That’s all I can figure. I need to feel held in “your” embrace. I am in need of truly feeling the support, the gentleness and the love. The sense of the benevolence of the universe of love. To really get the idea that I am not living within the same world, the same universe. The one that is full of cement buildings and people that would as soon do me harm as good. This has been demonstrated to me. I have moved in. I am not locked out.
Still, the feeling comes of not being able to rest until The Embrace is done. Can’t move on. Just plod away, plod away. Listen. Fix. Listen. Fix.
Yet I miss writing so much! It’s not that I’m not thoroughly engrossed in the audio. The thing it does is it’s taking me out of my life while at the same time it is providing insights into it. It’s like “it” . . . or you . . . are transforming my life without me having to work at it. It is inexplicable. But that is the way with creativity. This chapter, of all chapters, had to be re-created. It has to be what it is and it has to be a new expression of what it is—through me.
I suppose, Lord, if I were to start writing well, and not want to stop, I’d never get the audio done.
I trust that the “I” who writes, will return, if not tomorrow or next week . . . then when this “I” who writes, is done being this “I” who records.
Dear Mari, I printed out your post and had it on the coffee table. I picked it up several times because it was so like having relaxed a conversation with you. I loved thinking of you just being, then I noticed the title of the post was The Power of Being. Later versions changed to something about creating and recreating, but I like this one. I love picturing you wandering around in life, meandering, watching squirrels and other beings who are your neighbors. I have a wonderful frog, unusual, light green, who likes my hemlock tree, my courtyard fence, and me. I planted honeysuckle so the humming birds have moved in. It’s all quite magical. I want to share a poem about my Divine neighbors titled:
NOTICING
I want to write a poem that considers ‘noticing’
Which is the first step toward awe
And awe is the place
Where everything
I count on
Begins
Early I walk in the garden
And look for the baby praying mantis
Who likes my day lily
I care that it isn’t there again today
Its great, great, granddaddy (such an arresting presence)
Was a good friend several summers ago
He liked the same day lily
I look again—so easy to miss—
Yes, there it is
Less than in inch of fragile life
Tiny hands folded
Head turning at my approach
In just a few summer weeks
It will fulfill its emerald promise
And drink the cup of its allotted time
An egg of wonder forms
Some where in my chest
I must breathe
Around it
I praise that I am
Old enough and
Quiet enough these days
To notice.
Paula Payne Hardin
June 18, 2007
There was a different thread I had planned on following in my conversation with you, but this is what came out instead. The “I” who writes theme would be such fun to explore. I fear if I ever did have a cup of coffee with you I’d keep refilling my cup, prolonging our visit, such that I wouldn’t sleep for many nights!
Paula, I do believe we will meet some day, and yet, I like meeting you and getting to know you in this way. This is what I wrote about this week–my writing companions. I’ve met about a half dozen of my writing buddies in the last decade or so, and with each it has been so very much like we’d been friends, in the flesh, already. So comfortable, natural, and yet exciting to be together for a short while. I enjoy the way writing lets a friendship blossom without the things that come up with local friendships. I won’t be asked to make a casserole to share or to schedule time with you two weeks in advance. We are “together” and “alone” and I have always loved that and feel that is like to the call of union and relationship. And I’m so glad you like my nature observations. I could write of nothing else, I swear. Thank you for sharing the noticing and the awe.
I can relate to… Am I ever going to be as inspired to write like “I” “was” writing. Maybe it’s more that I feel that I am “letting people down” when they tell me I have not seen any posts from you. What I find helps me is to find those links to others where my words seem to be coming from “them”. It is amazing how that works, and secretly I am saying to myself, they are my inspiration and can follow through with others, when my words seem to be lost. Maybe its as simple as “integration”, as my words seem to manifest in every possible way the transition from ego to egoless and give me the opportunity to “embrace” this transition. (as I seem to be using the words “I” and “me” very frequently still)
Much love Robyn … may we flow with this moment
Robyn, How kind to share on your process. I seldom have a hard time writing, but boy, sometimes I have a hard time writing…”real” Do you know what I mean? I call it my journal voice. I’d prefer to always write like I’m not writing to or for anything, and that’s the “I” I need to be in touch with to write in a way that I’m satisfied with, and that seems to go missing as soon as I’m busy. I guess maybe “I’m missing” when I get too busy, and that’s the thing really, and the beauty of ACOL telling us that being who we are is imperative. That’s the writer’s voice that true for any of us. How lucky we are, who write. Our writing alerts us when we’re getting in our own way!