I was called to respond to a topic for the online magazine I regularly contribute to: Faith in writing. As though talking about ones “faith” is a controversial topic. I assume it is, however, because isn’t it quite controversial to our own selves? (I say “selves” on purpose, to pay homage to the many personae-masks we create day in, day out).
C. G. Jung said:
“Should not…God himself be allowed to speak, despite our only too understandable fear of the primary experience?”
I lingered on this quote for quite some time. The Primary Experience.
On my daily run tonight, passing the newly dampened desert landscape into a beautiful West Texas sunset, I felt, once again, the long-awaited sense of, what I like to call, Artistic Surrender, which is much like, for me, the spiritual surrender. The sense that, no matter what efforts we expend, we cannot have complete control over A) Our subconscious, and, B) our creative output.
I have not felt that wave of creative energy in a long time. Or, if I have, I have suppressed it out of fear. Fear that I am not good enough to eat what is set before me. To delve into the waters for fear I might drown.
I am too tired to write, really, but I wanted to write, at least, how good it felt to FEEL the possibility of a poem again. And I did manage to write that essay for the magazine. It turned out well. And I did manage to write a strange prose piece last Friday. And I did manage to set one foot in front of the other on my run and willingly delve into the emotions that overcame me. About what? About my most recent wound in life. My most recent death and tragedy. It in itself is a sea-shell of swirling energy that, in time, will create waves upon waves of poems–I just know it!
A few years ago, I would have pressed into the wound, into the memory of that terrible event, whatever in the past it was, and MADE it produce half-realized poems of the confessional sort. But now, I do not. I let it go its own path down a mysterious road I cannot linger on. Where it goes, I do not know. Gathering weeds with the rest of the events, global and in my own little experience-building brain, toward the light of the first primal experience. The ORIGINAL wound and separation.
And how beautiful it is to let it go, and come back, and go, as it pleases, from my creative life.
I’m learning: Poems do not have to present themselves to me every day, or week, or month. They have their own lives, too. Meeting with archetypes and waiting for the perfect storm of what is to come–good or bad–in my life that will build for it a vessel to fully arrive in my brain, ready to speak to me, and to the world. Oh but, wound, bitter stalking shadow-love, become that book I will not speak of yet.