Submission

March 3, 2020

“It is always hard to see the purpose in wilderness wanderings until after they are over.
6.”
― John Bunyan, The Pilgrim's Progress: From This World to That Which Is to Come

Rachel Held Evans, who passed much too soon at a young age, and John Bunyan are separated by time, country and theology. Still, the sense of being a pilgrim in a land of becoming is consistent to both writers. Her blog is still available online, and her books too, that illustrate her journey of faith in the land of social justice.

Though I haven’t read John Bunyon’s The Pilgrim’s Progress (1676) (yet) or John Milton’s Paradise Lost, I think that I’m on a path to delving into the some of the deeper meanings... as I said to Stephanie yesterday, I go very deep, especially after meditating, to which she responded: “Even without meditating.” Hmmm. If that isn’t food for thought....

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven...”
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

There is a common thread between these excerpts from these 17th Century writers, which is the sense that life is a journey of challenge and discovery. This is what I’ve been sensing all my life, and especially during the last few months, while committing to daily meditation and writing. This writing is something that I now acknowledge that I need to do, as part of my personal journey. I don’t know why yet, but I trust that the reasons will eventually become evident.

There is so much connection already, a synchronicity, a sense of becoming, to things that I don’t yet understand. I feel the tug and pull of the future drawing me forward. I know the goal is personal transformation, renewal and growth, part of which is learning how best to apply what I’m learning to the world around me. That’s always been my weak point: applying myself to the world around me. I’ve always felt out of step with the world of Sundays to Saturdays. Perhaps I’ve been looking in all the wrong places! Where I am most at home is at rest in the quiet, writing. I need to remember that.

Submission

At eight years of age,
Spending months as a housebound invalid,
I said I wanted to be a writer.
It seemed natural,
That what I was reading
Could also be written....

That knowing eroded over my years,
With the reading of great writers.
Could there be room for another who scribbles
(My childhood nickname),
Sending thoughts into the Universe?

It stuns me
To realize
That I don’t control
Readers’ thoughts.
That is a domain
Best left to them.
What I write means only
What it means to the reader.

Humility comes gradually.
If I submit verse to the Universe,
I must submit to it.
- C. Scribner © 3/3/20


Where any of this goes is not up to me. If I put it out into the Universe with a pure heart, it goes where it needs to go.