A note to readers: I have added a short story to "Other Books" in the web, and chapter 2 of "Basket of Reeds." On the latter, I will try to format it in numbered pages in the future for easier reading. Recall that this is part of a series I call the "Ben" series for the character that is (and will be) in all of them, as he goes from young graduate student to researcher to retired chair of his department. It was not meant to be a series, but so it has happened, with the next follow-up titled "Miracles." This focuses on a teen-age boy with his missionary parents in southern Venezuela who is imbued, against his will, with the "magical" powers of the local Indian shamans. Ben is found on fieldwork in the far back-woods, where he comes to play a crucial part in the boy's self discovery. Then there is the latest completed, "Orb of Being (I will probably change that title- this is where I got the name for this web site) which has Ben helping this boy, now a grown man, try to manage the powers he has long lived with as they begin to run amuck and cause death and destruction. Now, a further one calls for the maturation of a baby that is peripheral in the "Orb" book. It seems such things, the books I write, are going out of my hands.
Whose hands, then, are at work? This reminds me of a writer's conference I attended in Rhode Island a few years back, where a panel of successful writers were asked questions by those of us in the peanut gallery. As usual, someone asked, "Where do you get your ideas from?" At this I snickered, perhaps a little full of myself, but I was surprised when the author answered point blank: "From tidbits of life around me." This disturbed me, for although it is true that much of what is written IS gleaned from happenstance, the theme, at least for me, seldom (and now, never) is; rather it comes from nowhere. Inspiration, or investment by spirit, is what it used to be called, and that is more apt. Most serious writers, I think, would agree with me - that what they write is not themselves, but something else that wants to be expressed. It is the famous part of the artist's life, and why many readily deal with poverty and rejection for what they do, for the creative process is a mystical one with its own reward. It mirrors, and sometimes directly exhibits, the path of the seeking sage. At times, one feels kissed with the Other, the mystery, and can only look back in amazement and, at times, even awe.
Such creativity, however, is not pure - it is certainly mediated by personality, which is mediated by culture - which parallels the spiritual paths of most of us, which is similarly mediated by our personalities and religious beliefs or understandings. Ultimately, as the seeker knows, the Other is not quantifiable, not as words or pictures or song. We are always held at a distance as long as we interpret. The saint, who goes all the way, only knows the quiet voice, or, better put, the silent voice. "It" is him, and he is "that." But in art, as in prayer, you can sometimes come close.
We, then, are the seekers - perhaps all of us in our own way. I was reminded, or really informed recently, however, that "seeker" is not really the correct word. In "The Experience of God" by Raimon Panikkar, he is adamant, and I feel absolutely correct, when he says we can never be the seeker if we wish to find God (again, among many possible words). "God" is not a thing, and cannot be brought down or drawn out by a formula. It is rather, as Panikkar put it, God who seeks (or hunts) us; the shamans of Siberia have always know this, as do the mystics of every stripe. One leaves oneself open to the Seeker, rather than seeks. As a Plains Indian put it, in the vision quest, a person makes himself as humble as possible, through fasting, loneliness, and discomforts of many kinds, so that "the spirits have pity on you and grant you a vision."
Such it is with books, at least with me - you lay yourself open to inspiration and hope that it comes. So far, it has; someday, as happened to Earnest Hemingway, it might not. It is not for us to decide. When, or if, it stops, I will not put a gun in my mouth - I think Hemingway had other problems - but perhaps move on to find something else that works. For now, though, writing works. As does prayer and meditation. As does, I must admit, drinking a little too much in good company. Such is the time of year and I am brought to that - culture and individuality and spirit come together in many ways. Oh, but it will all go back to normal in a few days. Happy holidays, and thank God they also end.
Back to the subject: Seek and ye shall find - but as many parables of many cultures have it, we are always surprised by how and when it comes. I think it was G.K. Chesterton who wrote a short story about a boy who went far from his home to find mystery. After long travels, he arrived disappointed on the hill before his old home, where he noticed for the first time that his house had been built in the middle of a giant effigy of a dragon by ancient, mysterious hands. But he had to leave home to find that home was where the mystery is. Of course, that is the voyage we all take. Why it must be so remains a mystery as well. As does writing or any other work where you let yourself go and trust in the process. Skill and experience - let's say, "travel afar" - are necessary, but ultimately, the great thing comes from somewhere within, so far within that it cannot be seen by the mask, the personality, our imaginary selves.
And I must remind myself - that you cannot make it come. The seeker is, in the end, the sought. Our travels are the spiral lines you see engraved on the canyon walls by the Ancient Ones in the South West. We travel around and around until we are brought, in our blindness and faith, back to the center. The mystery.
Whose hands, then, are at work? This reminds me of a writer's conference I attended in Rhode Island a few years back, where a panel of successful writers were asked questions by those of us in the peanut gallery. As usual, someone asked, "Where do you get your ideas from?" At this I snickered, perhaps a little full of myself, but I was surprised when the author answered point blank: "From tidbits of life around me." This disturbed me, for although it is true that much of what is written IS gleaned from happenstance, the theme, at least for me, seldom (and now, never) is; rather it comes from nowhere. Inspiration, or investment by spirit, is what it used to be called, and that is more apt. Most serious writers, I think, would agree with me - that what they write is not themselves, but something else that wants to be expressed. It is the famous part of the artist's life, and why many readily deal with poverty and rejection for what they do, for the creative process is a mystical one with its own reward. It mirrors, and sometimes directly exhibits, the path of the seeking sage. At times, one feels kissed with the Other, the mystery, and can only look back in amazement and, at times, even awe.
Such creativity, however, is not pure - it is certainly mediated by personality, which is mediated by culture - which parallels the spiritual paths of most of us, which is similarly mediated by our personalities and religious beliefs or understandings. Ultimately, as the seeker knows, the Other is not quantifiable, not as words or pictures or song. We are always held at a distance as long as we interpret. The saint, who goes all the way, only knows the quiet voice, or, better put, the silent voice. "It" is him, and he is "that." But in art, as in prayer, you can sometimes come close.
We, then, are the seekers - perhaps all of us in our own way. I was reminded, or really informed recently, however, that "seeker" is not really the correct word. In "The Experience of God" by Raimon Panikkar, he is adamant, and I feel absolutely correct, when he says we can never be the seeker if we wish to find God (again, among many possible words). "God" is not a thing, and cannot be brought down or drawn out by a formula. It is rather, as Panikkar put it, God who seeks (or hunts) us; the shamans of Siberia have always know this, as do the mystics of every stripe. One leaves oneself open to the Seeker, rather than seeks. As a Plains Indian put it, in the vision quest, a person makes himself as humble as possible, through fasting, loneliness, and discomforts of many kinds, so that "the spirits have pity on you and grant you a vision."
Such it is with books, at least with me - you lay yourself open to inspiration and hope that it comes. So far, it has; someday, as happened to Earnest Hemingway, it might not. It is not for us to decide. When, or if, it stops, I will not put a gun in my mouth - I think Hemingway had other problems - but perhaps move on to find something else that works. For now, though, writing works. As does prayer and meditation. As does, I must admit, drinking a little too much in good company. Such is the time of year and I am brought to that - culture and individuality and spirit come together in many ways. Oh, but it will all go back to normal in a few days. Happy holidays, and thank God they also end.
Back to the subject: Seek and ye shall find - but as many parables of many cultures have it, we are always surprised by how and when it comes. I think it was G.K. Chesterton who wrote a short story about a boy who went far from his home to find mystery. After long travels, he arrived disappointed on the hill before his old home, where he noticed for the first time that his house had been built in the middle of a giant effigy of a dragon by ancient, mysterious hands. But he had to leave home to find that home was where the mystery is. Of course, that is the voyage we all take. Why it must be so remains a mystery as well. As does writing or any other work where you let yourself go and trust in the process. Skill and experience - let's say, "travel afar" - are necessary, but ultimately, the great thing comes from somewhere within, so far within that it cannot be seen by the mask, the personality, our imaginary selves.
And I must remind myself - that you cannot make it come. The seeker is, in the end, the sought. Our travels are the spiral lines you see engraved on the canyon walls by the Ancient Ones in the South West. We travel around and around until we are brought, in our blindness and faith, back to the center. The mystery.
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