See, there are certain things – like how to breathe, for instance – that I sort of expect myself to know already.
And then, inevitably, I encounter circumstances that force me to marvel at the ridiculously overinflated view I have of my own awareness.
Concrete example:
I’m a writer. (Hence, the weekly dose of verbiage here displayed.) I’ve been working with words and story for over 25 years now. Since my husband and I launched the “R. A. Nelson” business less than a year ago, we’ve published four books. (Granted, three of those had already been written, but . . . follow me here.) I was beginning to think I’d developed a comfortably rapid rhythm.
Ergo, when I finished the first draft of my new novel, The Ancient, on July 12th, I began blissfully – and, in my view, reasonably – planning for a September publication. I even said in a recent post that I was on the verge of beginning the publishing process.
That rattling noise you hear is the sound of J. R. R. Tolkien’s skeleton rolling in his grave and, simultaneously (he was a brilliant man), shaking his head in contemptuous disbelief.
Once I had cleaned up my mind child to a reasonable point, I sent it off to meet a few trusted editor-type friends. The feedback they are still providing has had two important effects:
- I am discovering vital elements in the story and characters that I missed in my first several passes, and without which I cannot now imagine the tale.
- My glibly optimistic timeline has been unmasked as the Harold Hill of schedules. (For those unfamiliar with this musical gem . . . he’s a con artist.)
Fret not: I am by no means disheartened. Even Harold Hill had a grain of truth running through his soul, bless him, and publication WILL happen before the year grows much older. All this means is that I was forced, again, to confront some uncomfortable truths:
I am still learning to write.
The rhythm is not under my control.
In order to do the story justice – and it is a worthy tale, friends, and deserves to become its best self – then I must give myself time.
If you’ve been following this blog even loosely, then you know this is a lesson I have had to learn repeatedly. Only a few months ago, I shared a post entitled Diary of a Convalescent Soul. In it, I described the major life changes my husband and I have made over the last year – actually, it was one year ago TODAY that the words “What if we just . . . moved?” were first uttered – and my ongoing struggle to give myself time in this still-unfolding adventure.
Along the way, even seemingly unrelated situations – like realizing a healthy chunk of my “finished novel”, comprising 14% of the text, requires delicately invasive surgery – can turn out to be medicine for my still-convalescing soul.
I am still learning to breathe in this new world.
And that is as it should be.
I wrote this poem on April 30th, only a few weeks into this stage of the adventure. I have returned to it several times since.
For all those still in breathing school with me: I hope it helps.
Breathe
It seems that every level up
each step ascending
Becomes more flimsy
– more, not less
Requiring more trust
Calling for more courage
It’s not a trick – there are no mirrors here
where clarity lies heavier than smoke
and light would burst my lungs
if I inhale.
Oh, teach me
teach me to breathe
Breathe in, and fall to pieces
Breathe out on those pieces
That the bones may reform
in some more pleasing shape
and live again
– for the first time.
Redefinition is not a bait-and-switch.
– Oh look, it’s me that needs to change:
Renewed until “arrival” means
“Come further up, come further in”
I should have known
And, someday, I’ll be grateful
But for now, this branch is flimsy
And the air is growing thin
(or maybe I’m too thick)
So I’m asking for a moment
straining for a whisper in the air:
“Breathe in.
Breathe out.”
Until that day
when my eyes have pierced through clarity
and my feet are nimble grown to leap from height to height
riding the buoyant winds of gratitude
Help me wait – still
So the voice that’s in the air
the voice that IS the air
Can get into my lungs
And teach me
teach me
oh God, help me
breathe.
Again, you draw me in, in to the lesson we all learn repeatedly. Amazing grace, relentless patience He showers upon us all.
Well said. 🙂
I LOVE reading your blogs, Ruth! If we ever feel we have mastered this lesson, we are in deep trouble! Thanks for sharing and reminding all of us to “just breathe!”
Oh, I am glad these words encourage you! Thank you for reading. I agree: may we all be eternal students!
Love that poem. Thank you, Ruth, needed that today.