It is Monday morning, and last night marked the first night of Hanukkah. It is my first one alone in a very, very long time. I am divorced, and my daughters are not here. Still, I can be grateful for a good deal, and for that which that feels somewhat miraculous.
"Somewhat miraculous" is about as close as I get to the notion of miracle. I am not a person who comes by faith easily. While this is not the place for theology (and in truth, its not a favorite topic of mine with those I don't know and love very deeply) I do have something in mind that pertains to writing.
When I think of the notion of "somewhat miraculous," I think of that which I am gifted. That is, something that seems to have appeared from some collective intelligence beyond my own. Call it the creative energy of the universe, the collective unconscious of humanity, ascribe some religious name to it, whatever you wish.
Writers call it the muse. Sitting down and not having any idea what we are going to write, and having writing transpire anyhow, is somewhat miraculous to me. I know that I have my part in it, and that part is sitting down, being fully present in the moment, and being courageous enough to sit in silence and accept it.
My butt in the chair. My fingers on the keys. I am granted words. From whoever or whatever or wherever I do not care.
Fifty years old, newly alone. Trying to make meaning of my new identity, new notions of family. Still, writing, the muse, always here, always.
Today, I am still, I wait for it.
"Somewhat miraculous" is about as close as I get to the notion of miracle. I am not a person who comes by faith easily. While this is not the place for theology (and in truth, its not a favorite topic of mine with those I don't know and love very deeply) I do have something in mind that pertains to writing.
When I think of the notion of "somewhat miraculous," I think of that which I am gifted. That is, something that seems to have appeared from some collective intelligence beyond my own. Call it the creative energy of the universe, the collective unconscious of humanity, ascribe some religious name to it, whatever you wish.
Writers call it the muse. Sitting down and not having any idea what we are going to write, and having writing transpire anyhow, is somewhat miraculous to me. I know that I have my part in it, and that part is sitting down, being fully present in the moment, and being courageous enough to sit in silence and accept it.
My butt in the chair. My fingers on the keys. I am granted words. From whoever or whatever or wherever I do not care.
Fifty years old, newly alone. Trying to make meaning of my new identity, new notions of family. Still, writing, the muse, always here, always.
Today, I am still, I wait for it.
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