On Life and Writing

This past week, I googled Dr. Wayne Dyer quotes. If you ever need inspiration, he is an amazing go-to. Anyway, while scrolling, this one spoke to me:

We tend to pity ourselves when we perceive that fate is against us. I know a person whose son battles a severe brain illness, and her house flooded from a hurricane a few years ago. Recently her mom died, and just a month later her dog died. I understand how she might say, “Poor me.” A person can dwell on those thoughts or reframe them. “We are alive. My home has been rebuilt. My memories bring comfort and joy, and I am blessed to have them.”

Both Dr. Wayne Dyer and William Wordsworth proclaim the ability to create our own realities—through thoughts and intentions. How encouraging is that idea when it comes to our writing?

We can create our thoughts: “I am a writer. I am good. I am improving.”

Our thoughts can create our intentions: “I’m going to read at least three books a month with the goal of improving my writing, and each weekday I’m going to practice writing and check in with my writing group.” Our intentions create our reality. Little by little, in the same way that Wordsworth set out one summer with the intention of crossing the Alps. He didn’t even realize he accomplished his goal. He just had the thought and showed up and put one foot in front of the other. In the words of my friend Narayan Kaudinya—

Self-pity will inevitably sneak up, self-kindness is a practice, and I know what Dr. Wayne would say—

I Awoke to the Moon

I awoke to the moon shining through the trees and studied it with delight in the cool Sunday morning breeze. I felt God with me. My mother and my dog Rain, too. No longer here. But vividly here. In my heart.

Great are the works of the Lord;
They are studied by all who delight in them.
         Psalm 111:2

The Lord created the world. That thought alone boggles the mind. His works are great. I will study and delight in them.

This spring semester, I’m studying William Wordsworth’s epic poem, The Prelude. According to my syllabus, “it is often said that The Prelude represents the true beginning of modern literature.” Book One depicts the poet from his youth, studying and delighting in the works of the Lord. Wordsworth never directly credits God, but he contemplates nature—the time of year, the warmth of the day, the placement of the sun in the sky, the color of the clouds, the illumination of the ground, and the peace of his surroundings—in connection to his own place in the world.

‘Twas Autumn, and a calm and placid day,
With warmth as much as needed from a sun
Two hours declined towards the west, a day 
With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,
And, in the sheltered grove where I was couched
A perfect stillness. On the ground I lay
Passing through many thoughts, yet mainly such 
As to myself pertained…(74-81).

Wordsworth provides a basic lesson of gratitude in his appreciation of small pleasures, and in this case, the world’s beauty. God resides in His creation, and like Wordsworth, we can find God’s peace if only we stop long enough to see and breathe in His presence in the world. Through a meditative pause and an eye on divine creation, Wordsworth found inspiration, hope, and a soothing balance in his life, and so will we.

…Thus long I lay
Cheared by the genial pillow of the earth
Beneath my head, soothed by a sense of touch
From the warm ground, that balanced me…(87-90).

Taste and see that the Lord is good; 
blessed is the one who takes refuge in him…
                                                Psalm 34:8

Wordsworth and Rain and Breathing Hearts

 
  “Fill your paper 
 with the breathings 
 of your heart.” 
 I’ve carried 
 Wordworth’s words awhile.
 I've worn them 
 around my neck.
 Today I breathe 
 a few of my own
 onto this page
 with my whole heart.
  


 Wordsworth would say,
 “The Poet thinks and feels 
 in the spirit of the passions of men…
 he must express himself
 as other men
 express themselves…”
 with “a greater readiness 
 and power in expressing 
 what he thinks and feels.”
 It’s about the expression,
 man’s or woman’s,
 keeping it simple.
 Relatable. 
  
 He would say,
 “…in proportion 
 as ideas and feelings 
 are valuable, 
 whether the composition 
 be in prose or in verse, 
 they require and exact 
 one and the same language.”
 So Mr. Wordsworth,
 Do your words 
 a poem make?
  
 Today my heart stopped breathing. 
 So did the heart of my dog Rain. 
 She was fourteen years old 
 with a heart of gold, 
 a heart that failed. 
 But did it really—
 when she gave so much 
 love away? 
  
 One month ago, my mother passed. 
 Rain traveled across 
 the state line. 
 A good eleven hours 
 in the car each way.
 Away from home
 eleven days. 
 The trip was hard. 
 For both of us. 
 Rain suddenly seemed 
 her age.
  
 On the third day 
 of the new year, 
 a Sunday,
 Rain couldn’t breathe.
 I was ready then 
 to let her go. 
 But oxygen 
 and medicine,
 a hospital stay 
 and a dollar or two 
 could fix her
 good as new. 
 For a moment. 
 Just ten days 
 after my mother’s death, 
 I couldn’t do loss again. 
 But I knew Rain’s time would come. 
 And now—“The rain is over and gone!” 
 Yet somehow my heart breathes on.