What I'm giving up for Lent

OK. So clearly someone "post-Christian" doesn't observe Lent strictly religiously, as a preparation for Easter. But the imprint of the Church year remains strong, part of the rhythm of my life. And for the first time in years, I feel a clear leading to give something up.

I was the only "creative" person in my family. In fact, my mother had rejected her mother's painting, designing, knitting and rug-hooking, and was, I fear, extremely uncomfortable with my creativity and musicality. Dad had no creative or hobby interests. By and large, my brothers were into the out-of-doors (hiking, skiing, bicycling and sailing), although Andrew would become quite a fine photographer. But overall, in my family and among friends, I was "the creative one." Many of you know the feeling, always being asked to make cards or write silly poems or draw diagrams or maps because, "You're the one who can do all these things."

Oddly (given my parents' overall lack of interest in the arts), I think I equated my creativity with "worth," and thought somehow if they (and by extension, the world) could see my beautiful creations, they would find me worthy to be on the planet. And yet, decades of organ recitals, embroidered or painted gifts, and music and art degrees went by with barely a, "That's nice dear." How much I was doing anything for its own sake, and how much in a frenzied attempt to prove my worth, I don't know.

And in this last decade, there has been something of the same quality to my (decidedly creative!) efforts to get back to England and the world of English church music. I don't have to prove to myself that this is the core of my being. But maybe if I got into such-and-such a choir, or sang at such-and-such a cathedral, or began to be recognized as a Howells scholar, I would finally be seen, respected, embraced. I would be "worthy." Yet I'm still in America, still living on nearly nothing, still feeling invisible all around. While I don't doubt the value of my skills and their results, I am questioning whether my 60 years of creativity have been done from the right inner place, how much my various efforts have helped anyone else, and whether this sort of creativity has been, in fact, the highest skill set I was meant to use in this lifetime.

These last six weeks or so, I've done a lot of writing and some desultory art and design. Creativity is still my instinctive default as I travel my path. But there is something so stale about my creative energy right now. Perfunctory, unenthusiastic.

So on Ash Wednesday, two days from now, I will put aside all creative materials, even pen and paper. I will release the need to write, journal, blog, paint, collage, sing, or even creatively problem solve. I do have reservations about putting my book on hold. Eight months of hard work has brought me within shouting distance of the end of it, but my gut tells me my Lenten creativity "fast" will teach me something important that I need to know before finishing the project.

Will I twiddle my thumbs? Will I watch too much TV? Will I take up bird watching? Where will my creative energy get channeled? I don't know. All I know is that if an impulse feels "creative" in the traditional sense of the word, I will politely thank it and ask it to wait "forty days and forty nights."

And sometime the week after Easter, I will let you know what has happened. In a strange way, creativity has been a heavy mantle. I feel lighter already.

Protagonist

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of attending a workshop on telling your life story, led by Diane M. Millis, PhD, a writer and spiritual director. She is the author of Re-Creating a Life: Learning How to Tell our most Life-Giving Story, and I am working my way through the book/exercises as a way of improving the memoir I am currently writing, and just simply to turn the corner on seeing my life in a new way.

The other day, I noticed that the next chapter was called, "Who is the Protagonist in your story?" Before I even had a chance to read the chapter, my brain responded, "My Father."

Uh-oh. 

Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.

Let's put aside for a moment that a therapist would have a field day with this. Let's put aside for a moment the fact that my dad was such a passive black hole, and that even now it is hard to nail down anything active that he "did to me." Indeed, he did so little in so many respects that the fact that I see him as a protagonist is extremely surprising. All of this is for another day.

But the headline is that, on some very essential level, I have not seen myself as the main character in my own life story. This is horrifying given the fact that I have been single all these years and operating on my own in the world. And yet I can't help but wonder to what extent that this is the experience of many other women; even in 2020, we are in a culture that can treat us as support staff, no matter what our actual role is.

Something has snapped into place since journaling about this surprising response.  Feisty little Lizzie has come to life. "I don't think so! I don't want anyone else, male or female, to be the main character in my story! This is my story!" She's two years old, and her feet are stomping on the ground!

Clearly, some work to do. I am thankful for the time to do it, and for the wonderful tool of this book.

For one moment

Last week has to have been one of the most trying/traumatizing ever, at least from the standpoint of looking outward. The spread of fear, hatred, disease...I had both got the "news" of it through the medium of TV, and sought relief there as well, unsuccessfully. Scanning the cable channels, I rarely found anything that was not a thriller, a crime show, or a movie about war or a future apocalypse. (Gosh, what is it that people don't get about the law of attraction?!) Even my old fallback, The Great British Baking Show, is competitive at its core, only more gently so.

My whole life, it seems, I have been emotionally at arm's length from a family I didn't understand, an ocean away from the music and place I love, a gender away from being able to sing that music, and looking through plate glass at institutions and conflicts that make no sense. I am sure I have been derided for not doing a better job of engaging, and considered ill, myself, because I don't function well in "reality." I guess I have said it before -- I have felt so apart, and frankly, so lonely.

This morning, I saw a reference (with photos) to the battlefields of World War One. I felt my usual, dizzy sense of otherness, not understanding on any level why wars are fought, or the desire to kill people in battle or otherwise. I feel chronically distanced from every manifestation of separation and conflict, whether political, social, economic, health, or religious. When I try to live a life referencing these world "realities," I feel untethered, as if I am tumbling through space. Talk about homeless.

Then inexplicably, for a short "aha" moment, the "otherness" of the world didn't matter. For one moment, all that mattered was my "is"-ness. My truth, my vision, my artistry and musicianship, my honest efforts to stand up every day in a sea of what feels like insanity. This feeling of groundedness keeps trying to slip away, but I'm holding on.

I believe that one or two hundred years from now, the only human life that will still exist on this planet will be that which is primarily "about" love/compassion/support/beauty/harmony/truth/passion/vitality/joy. Resistance to these things will just fall away. No grand battle. Enough people will simply grow tired of conflict and not engage in it, in any form. Hatred of other people and the earth will dissipate into the mist, as people stop even hearing "calls to arms" and "fighting words." Our energy ripples will be too high to even hear those sounds.

We artists and musicians have always "gotten it." Yellow isn't put on the canvas to fight blue. Altos are not in the choir to fight basses. Sometimes there is dissonance, but it's resolved, not killed off.

Oh to hold onto this for one more moment.