Happy 2018 – and Happy Eve of Epiphany!
The Feast of Epiphany is tomorrow. It marks the end of “Christmas” and celebrates the visit of the three wise men to the Christ child, the event that signifies this baby as Messiah not just for Israel, but for the gentiles also. “Epiphany” literally means “an appearance or manifestation” (thank you, dictionary.com). It is about that moment when light breaks through and you see what you were not able to see before. It feels very appropriate to be celebrating such a moment at the dawn of a new calendar year, when most of the way ahead still lies hidden in the darkness of mystery. As I wrestle with the unknowns of tomorrow, and next week, and the months to follow, I can reflect on the fact that Light HAS broken through, and is breaking through still, and will continue to break through; and, in the warmth of that Light, I am comforted.
It seems appropriate also in this time of transition between years and church calendar seasons to reflect on what brought me to this particular moment in my career as a writer.
Wow. I just had a moment, friends. Transparency: I’ve been considering myself a writer for years, but typing those words just brought it home on a new level that I am pursuing my chosen vocation as a career, full-time. I am a writer. I write words for a living. (The “living” part is a matter of hope and faith at this point, but more on that to come.) How did I get here, exactly???
That, my friends, is the subject of my next blog series.
Over the coming weeks, I will take you on the journey that led to one R. A. Nelson sitting at her computer at this moment, listening to Handel’s Messiah and typing busily away for your enjoyment and edification. 🙂 Grab a cuppa and enjoy Part One!
I decided I wanted to be a writer at the tender age of nine. I was fortunate enough to have elementary school teachers (eternal thanks to Mrs. Moser, Ms. McPherson, and Mrs. Tindall!) who encouraged creative writing. One of my assignments – in fourth grade, I think – was to write a story about my dream life as an adult. In my story, I had a white house with forest green shutters, a forest green mustang convertible, a family – and a successful career as an author, receiving ludicrous royalty checks in the mail.
Even more influential than my teachers, however, was my brother. He is nine years older than I, so when I was nine, he was eighteen and a freshman in college and so cool. I thought then – and still think now, for that matter – that he is one of the most gifted, gracious, gentle, and generous human beings I have ever had the privilege to know. He is a writer and actor and director, among other pursuits and accomplishments. And, that Christmas, when I was nine and he was eighteen, he gave me a large black sketchbook, inscribed with a quote from John Bunyan’s Author’s Apology at the beginning of Pilgrim’s Progress:
“Thus I set pen to paper with delight,
And quickly had my thoughts in black and white;
For, having now my method by the end,
Still as I pulled, it came; and so I penned
It down; until it came at last to be,
For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.”
In the inscription, he told me the sketchbook was mine to fill with stories and ideas and any other words rolling around in my soul. He said I was a writer, and he wanted me to have a place in which to write.
This is why the first Gatekeeper book is dedicated to my brother. By calling me a writer, he opened a vital gate for me. I walked – nay, ran – through it, and have never once looked back.
I still have that book. It contains a few early attempts at books, one or two cringe-worthy illustrations (a visual artist I am NOT), some stories, dreams (I believe you should always write down your dreams, as much as you can remember; most of them come to nothing, but I have one full-length play and one long narrative poem as a result of two particularly vivid and fertile dreams) the sketched outline of Gatekeeper II, and a multitude of poems. Most of these poems will never see the light of day (for which fact we can all be thankful), but there are a few of which I am rather fond. The first poem of which I was truly proud – the first time I actually thought of myself as a poet – is in that sketchbook, and it seems right and good to bring “Part One” of this story to a close by sharing this poem with you.
I was sixteen years old. My parents and I had recently left our home in Atlanta, GA – the only home I had ever known – for Massachusetts, and we took a little tour of New England as a vacation. One of our first stops was Gloucester, MA, followed shortly by Halibut Point State Park.
It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. My teenage soul was suddenly filled with an ache that was already familiar to me – the ache of beauty so powerful and delight so keen that it is almost like sorrow. C. S. Lewis calls this “Joy”. Though I had experienced this ache many times before – usually in the company of Lewis, Tolkien, or other favorite authors – now, for the first time, I felt the need to express it. I felt the new, terrifying sensation of a real poem stirring inside me, one that would not give me rest until it had been birthed. So, as my parents drove us to our next adventure, I “set pen to paper with delight, and quickly had my thoughts in black and white…”
I hope you enjoy this poem, one of the firstfruits of my lifelong labour to bring forth “The Bigness Which [I] See” and make it visible to others.
Reverie
There are many stories I have heard
By word of mouth or written word
Each in its own a work of art;
These tales have burned into my heart.
Through them I’ve traveled unknown lands
And held rare treasures in my hands
And watched the sun go down to shade
In fair and secret forest glade.
Strong boats of wood have carried me,
By winding rivers, to the sea:
I’ve sailed o’er many waters deep
To islands where the sirens sleep.
And O! the friends that I have met!
Such friendships one ne’er does forget.
With jolly man and talking beast
I’ve sat at many an epic feast.
I’ve cheered to see the battle’s end
And wept o’er many a fallen friend.
Damsels true and warriors brave,
Their deeds did many nations save.
But the best adventures I have known
Are those I thought up on my own
With friends that I have never met
In story, song, or legend – yet.
When sunset colors paint the sky
Or swords of lightning duel on high –
When birds soar by on outstretched wing
Or breezes make the treetops sing –
Or when I stand where rock meets sea
And hear the breakers’ melody –
The wonder of Creation’s dance
Declares that NOTHING comes from chance! –
THEN unheard ballads fill my soul,
And I am incompletely whole.
THEN tales uncaught by verse or prose
Enfold my spirit in their throes:
Frail portraits of infinity!
GOD, the Artist, makes me see
Through the thrill of things unknown
A glimpse of my eternal home.
Ok!! Every time I read this poem, I want to weep for its beauty. Thank you for sharing it afresh.
,
It – and the vacation that inspired it – will always have a special place in my heart. 🙂
You are amazing. Thank you for sharing these thoughts with us.
Thank you. For everything.
Still one of my favorite poems from your own. It lifts my spirit and sends me soaring through the heavens. I love how sometimes a simple gift can stir a desire, an unknown dream, or open the door to a calling. Thank you for sharing your journey with us. Grace and peace to you on this holy day of epiphany 💓
It’s one of my favorites, too. 🙂 Thank you for finding it special; I am so glad we get to share such things.
I love that poem, Ruth, and am loving t adding about you stepping into your calling as a writer!!
*Reading about
Thank you, Sarah! It’s good to hear from you!
Your poem is so lovely. I read it out loud to Larry. Very impressive for a sweet 16 year old to write poetry so beautifully – a rare gift indeed! Happy New Year to you and your beloved. Hope you are staying warm!
Happy New Year to the Miller household! May we all take care to stay warm during this intense winter.
Amen to this poem — a beautiful, throaty heralding in of the New Year. Feels like standing on the bow of one of those strong ships, feeling the mist of sea spray and adventure and shouting “Bring it on!”
Well said, friend. BRING. IT. ON.