Pruning, Part 2

An open red rose, illuminated by morning sun | photo by Karen Miedrich-Luo

If truth be told, I wanted to unfriend many people screaming from across a great chasm, recently. At least plug my ears? I am a writer and words mean so very much to me, especially truth and what we do with it. Stuck in an ivory tower, supported by books and words and images, I need those people outside this narrow tower. Even if we don’t agree.

I need community.

As a writer, I need community not only to critique my words and sentences and ideas. I need input because when I air my messy thoughts, then listen to other opinions, I gain more than learning where my mistakes are.

One Saturday, last Fall, I attended writing craft workshops at two different venues. The morning session comprised of a group of local writers who meet once a month to share their work and offer constructive criticism. They are self-defined as Christian, though their writing may or may not be considered spiritual. The second seminar was a public gathering of people who paid for instruction in the craft of spiritual memoir.

The morning session began with prayer, scripture, well-chosen hymns that highlighted “story.” It was followed by a reading from A Light So Lovely by Sarah Arthur, about Madeliene L’Engle and her Christian faith. The group then discussed an essay by Flannery O’Connor (On the Novel and Belief) which laments the modernist tendency to subdue reference to active Christian faith, as if faith were something to be ashamed of. Afterward, we were asked to think about our writing goals, our frustrations, or simply comment on our current works in progress. The group prayed for me and my concerns and I left early.

Across town, the second group gathered. It was double the size and all were strangers to one another and the instructor. On the board she wrote the word Spiritual and the word Memoir. She then asked the class to define “spiritual” and I, still in a reflective frame of mind, decided to listen and observe.

Perhaps lulled by the congeniality and comraderie of the morning session, it simply never occurred to me that a definition of “spiritual” would not include God, or Spirit, or Soul, or belief, or religion. Those words eventually found their way onto the board by the teacher, after pausing for further comments. The communal words were: energy, intuition, being, awareness, universe, vibe, nature, elements, consciousness, inner dialogue. The words I had been thinking, like incorporeal, ineffable, sacred, or holy, could not be expressed because there was no context for these ideas outside of deity. 

I learned a lot from the instructor about craft and I heard many stories that expanded my worldview. And though holding those other ideas before me managed to create more space and new ideas, I did not find community.

I need more than someone appreciating or critiquing my words and ideas. I need community to stretch me beyond high and lofty sentences and challenge me to enter them, ask the hard questions:  What am I trying to say with them? Why are these ideas important? What do they mean, to me? Why do I feel compelled to share them? What is at stake? What is the ineffable and sacred thing I need to express? Despite my fear of conflict and opposition, I need to listen to contrary voices. I need people to spot the holes in my logic and help me see a different perspective, one that is not my own. But I also need community that recognizes where my creative source originates.

Ideas are often likened to fruit and fruit trees need pruning. We’ve had a stressful summer, a very hot one, without much rain. We watered our lawn religiously and our stand of pecans, cypress, oaks, and citrus seemed well. Then one day, a perfectly healthy, very large Pecan branch sheared right off from the weight of its massive green Pecan clusters. Even the smaller branches were loaded with them such that lifting the smallest branch weighed as much as a large bowling ball. I am familiar with pruning dead branches, but not healthy ones. The preponderance of fruit, ripening and growing, was too much for the tree. It is important to shed some of that fruit, to shave off even healthy-looking fruit to spare the whole tree the trauma of self-sacrifice. But I speak again of words. I must look at the whole tree.

I need community.

Community helps me see what I truly need to write. Community shows me how to prune away the good ideas I have for other things that are sucking away my ultimate goals. While following the Kavanaugh hearings, I got side-tracked and was so tempted to enter the fray, stand on my soapbox, and levy my vision of truth. I want my voice to count and to hopefully have an impact on society. But a few close friends helped me step back and consider those competing ideas. As I wrestled with my intentions, I realized that I do not want to write about policy or deeply held political ideas.

My longtime goal is to be a peacemaker, a bridge, a conduit of encouragement that crosses barriers. That is not to say I do not hold opinions, nor that I cannot voice them at the ballot box, or even online. But that is not currently my goal as a writer. I need to prune away the obvious conflicts, the ego, the largest immediate fruit, to protect the health of my tree and bear fruit for a different purpose. 

(This post originally appeared at Write/Create and is no longer available.)

Synthesis

books, clock, two elves on a shelf | photo: Karen Miedrich-Luo

When I look at all the books on my bookshelves, I am struck that each one, prior to publication, represents years of some author's work. Each page, each sentence, was a labor of emotion, thought, and action, and of all the books on all the shelves in all the libraries, these books made it to my home.

These are not the same titles on your shelf, either. These titles reflect my own interests, pursuits, or required reading. Some were gifts or written by friends, books I was compelled to read. But I only keep the ones I like and currently, Goodreads tells me eight-hundred and forty books are mine. I don't count the books on my children's shelves or those that belong to my husband, nor do I keep account of all the books I've read and returned to the library, re-sold to a second-hand store, or lost.

I am a writer and a reader. I have interests that go beyond what I write. Some books are instructional and used for reference. Some are pictorial and pleasant to look through. Many books were half-read or I read excerpts during my college years studying history, philosophy, religion, biblical languages, literature, and Chinese culture. Would it surprise you to know I've only fully read a third of these books? I seem to buy them faster than I can read them!

I consider myself a niche writer, and to that end, I buy many books that fit within that corner of the market. It is a category so narrow, the bookstores don’t know where to shelve it; I’ve seen it in nature, travel, autobiography, even fiction. My favorite authors might be mixed in anywhere. When I first started reading and writing in this style, there was a lot of conflict about whether to include the genre in M.F.A. programs across the country.

Today, creative/literary nonfiction is filling the shelves and the authors are proliferating. This is a very good thing for a reader. But for a writer, the competition is stiff. My inner critic reminds me of this frequently. I worry about wasting time on something no one will read because someone else has written about that topic or for that audience. How can I compete with something fresh and timely when the population has seen that, done that? In this era of blog overload and redundancy, do I have a voice anyone wants to hear?

I look again at my books and remember the labor of each one brought into existence by even modern authors I wish I could emulate or talk with. I crave the conversations in my head sparked by Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Diane Ackerman, Kathleen Norris, Jill Kandel, and Nancy Nordenson. I’ve even tried reading Annie Dillard’s recommended reading list, the seminal books which sparked her thoughts. Those authors don’t excite me as much as she does. She took what interested her and created something new that I identify with and love to read.

As a writer, I cannot be Annie Dillard, or any other author I admire. But I do have a wealth of interesting subjects and resources, experiences and passions that only I can germinate into something new, in a soil where no one but me is planted.

What books are on your shelves and why? Which authors excite you and create a private dialogue in your head? Where is that conversation leading you to explore more fully?

This post originally appeared at Write/Create, Inc. on January 28, 2019)

Power of the Tongue

Words kill, words give life; they're either poison or fruit - you choose. 

Proverbs 18:21, The Message

As a writer, I think a lot about speech and how to communicate with the world. Daily, I truck in words. I write, speak, listen, think, and read words without limit. Words have the power to lift the spirit, encourage, inspire, threaten, devalue or depress the soul. Truly, we ingest words and eat its fruit. For years I interpreted this scripture through how our words affect others; how we can slay or edify others with what we say or write. But recently I've learned how my own words work on me. My thoughts and words can light a fire in my belly that burns all the way up into my ears and out onto my tongue.

I have a condition called GERD. Though the symptoms sometimes are treatable, the underlying cause often isn’t. It is a continuous, high-acid stomach that is made worse by two things – acidic foods and anxiety. The food part is easier to manage; I eliminate acidic foods from my diet. Anxiety has a whole different set of rules and mostly it consists of eliminating stress. And what is stress but a stream of consciousness formation of ideas that induces fear or anger or complaining or self-loathing or negativity in a million different scenarios. These nebulous thoughts eventually form words and sentences. Sometimes I hold it in and sometimes I let it out. Usually, I let it out by complaining.

I recently read an unverifiable yet oft-quoted online article claiming a study out of UC shows complaining creates neuron pathways which rewire your brain for negativity. Experientially, I can attest to this, it feels good to complain. Soon it becomes easier to be negative than to be positive. Others react to your negativity which increases negative feelings and the cycle continues. Conversely, there is a well-known study that, in addition to a plethora of beneficial outcomes, cultivating gratitude reduces cortisol levels by 23% and releases serotonin, the feel-good hormone.

A similar study in primates, shows that depression and stress shrink the hippocampus which is thought to be the center of the nervous system, memory, and emotions.

Whether or not the science has proved a connection to rewiring the brain, the bible does make it clear that the tongue has power over life and death; those who indulge it must eat its fruit. (Complete Jewish Bible) And so, I have begun to pay attention to the effects of my words and thoughts on my flesh. Do words punish me? No, but my grievances do. As a memoirist and a student of the personal essay, I am aware of how uncovering our memories can sometimes uncover negative emotions. Many writers relate how their health begins to fail while drafting their memoir. I once dropped a work in progress after several thousand words due to the depression and sadness it was creating in me. Giving up was so much easier than dealing with strong emotions and physical pain.

The bible is full of complaints and the desire to quit. The Israelites complained about eating only manna and Moses complained the people were too stubborn. David complained about his alienation in songs, Jeremiah lamented on the top of a pole, and Elijah despaired he was the last man left who believed in God. Complaining, it seems, is acceptable under one condition – that we gripe to God with the belief that He hears and sees and cares. There is something about casting our stress on God that eliminates our fear. When David vented through the Psalms, he always ended with thanksgiving and praise.

I struggle with keeping my body free of acidity. My flesh literally burns from within. It affects my health, my appetites, my breath, my mood, and my life. During severe flare-ups, I just want to die. I want to be a sweet aroma, not a walking factory of burning flesh. Instead of complaining, now I am training myself to be thankful, to praise the God who created my stomach, and to choose the fruit of the tongue that brings life.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. (Reinhold Niebuhr)

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(This post originally appeared at lessonsonpaper.com)