And Darkness Was Upon the Face of the Deep: Writing Authentically Provides Form for Despaire and Transforms Darkness Into Light

I woke at 3:00 in the morning, so sure I had something worth writing.  I rose like lightning, no fear.  I didn't worry about how I'd make it through my day without sleep.  I didn't worry if I'd be able to get what was in my head on paper.  I didn't worry about editing out the uncouth, the vulgar, the unruly. I didn't worry about clearing the dense, ripe, wild, thicket.

I wrote fast and furious.  I was high on my own mind.  When Marci woke up, I shared my plans for the next great American novel.  She, the good wife, supported me, or just knew from years of living with a writer to not try and insert reality into the mind of a manic.

I even rushed off to work with the camera so that I could take pictures of the setting for my imaginary town after work, using a nearby town as my model.

Then something happened.  Doubt crept in.  Is any of it good?  Have I said anything that can be misconstrued or misinterpreted?  Have I let the pagan out?  Will I be cast out as a crazed, lunatic? Will my blog tank?  Will my facebook friends unfriend me?

I was so frantic that I opened my post during work time (something I never do as I have plenty of students to help, plenty of papers to grade), and read quickly through my draft trying to convince myself that it was in fact the same masterpiece I believed I'd created earlier this morning.

I was able to hold doubts at bay for a while, and even made my trip to photograph my model setting. However, the evidence was too strong--out of five pages, I had one good sentence:  Life is a town on a plain between reality and the exotic.  A gem to be sure, but a tiny diamond in a pile of horseshit.

So, I had to do the hard thing.  Scrap my wild-night dream, my hard labor, the idea that my lack of sleep would be redeemed by a masterpiece.

Such is the life of a writer.  I don't think there is any other way, but in the long run, I think it is healthy:  wild, manic moments of poring everything out on the page as quickly as your hand can move--and not just for the good of your writing. It's also good for your soul.  How else do you discover those hidden places in your mind?:  dark cellars, small closets, skeletons, bones--yes?  But also attics of light, a piece of tar paper stuck in an old elm tree, regal and battered as a black bird, glimpsed through a dirty, cobweb-covered window.  

I'm careful about making generalizations out of personal passions.  Although I'm an English teacher, I've never felt literature must be a part of everyone's life.  If you'd rather knit, crochet, work on engines, or bowl, bully for you, but I do wonder how the non-writer accesses his/her soul?  It seems journal writing, at least, should be part of everyone's life.

And not the type of journal you dream of handing down to posterity to inspire and enlighten them, though that is important too.  But messy, wild, dangerous journals where demons are allowed to enter, and in the process of being written out, either die or become converted into saints.  Even if they remain demons, there is a safe place for them--much better than beating them back down into the basement with a big stick. Especially for the youth.  I worry as much about the teenager who never has thoughts of suicide as much as I do the one who does.  Human development has rooms that must be passed through, and a healthy person steps through the doors at the appropriate times.

There is a reason Lindsey Buckingham wrote "So Afraid" while relatively young and Sting wrote "King of Pain" early in his career.  It is doubtful Ginsberg, no matter what parallel universe you placed him in, would have written "Howl" in his old age.  There is a reason why youth are drawn to such works of art.

I'm not saying adults should turn a blind eye to depression; we all know too well the tragic results of that. And it is easy for youth to move from a healthy release of negative emotions through music to actually feeding those emotions--throwing steaks to a cub until it becomes a tiger.  But perhaps, it is better to give youth a safe place to work through their emotions: through journals that are regarded as private and music that is tolerated even though it is not necessarily uplifting.

I'm not advocating liaise-fare parenting here.  Teens need parental involvement and limits desperately. Nothing is scarier than kicking at the safety-rail and finding out the safety-rail is an illusion and you're tumbling free-fall.

What I am advocating is allowing youth to walk through doors and into the developmental rooms in their psychic mansions in safety.  What they really need is translation.

We all do.  That is the value of writing.  It gives shape and definition to the void, to the deep:

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.  And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.  

And God said, Let there be light; and there was light. (Genesis 1:2-3)

Notice that before God declares light, his spirit moves across the darkness.  He doesn't dive into it; he doesn't dwell there; but he does touch it, name it, and know it prior to illuminating it.

When it comes to the states with the highest suicide rates, Utah is number 15 with 14.3 suicides per 100,000 people (CBS).   This is ironic, as Mormons are generally healthier, better educated and better off economically than the general U.S. population (Deseret News,PEW).

Perhaps in embracing the belief that, "men are, that they might have joy" (2 Nephi 2:25), Mormons have failed to give weight to another doctrine, "For it must needs be,  that there is an opposition in all things" (2 Nephi 2:11).  Perhaps we sometimes need to walk through the valley of death and survive before we fully recognize joy.

I did not intend this post to be centered around Mormonism.  In my opinion, American culture, as a whole, generally fears sorrow and darkness nearly as much as the subculture of Mormonism and generally has the same tendency towards positive thinking, as evidenced by vast ocean of literature on the subject.  And I too generally believe in optimism.

But denial is perhaps the most damaging lie as it is a lie to ones own soul.

My faith has saved me, has filled my life with light, but only after my art gave me permission to move across the waters, know the deep and feel the depth of the void below me.

It is the writer's job to discover the universe through the microcosm within and translate that experience for humanity.  In short, our job is to bear witness.  To do this, we must know ourselves and be willing to write what is real.  I can best use my God-given talent by being willing to let my mind move across the waters, be they calm or turbulent.

I would argue that we are all writers and have that need, but we deny it.

Suicide is not a symptom of shedding light on darkness; rather, it is a symptom of leaving the shutters closed, where fears are without form, where the depth of the waters are unknown.  By translating those feelings, giving them form, realizing the ocean, though deep, is not bottomless, we are eventually able to declare Let there be light! in our own lives.

At least that was my own personal experience; I literally wrote my way to safe ground.  It may not be the same for everyone. Though useful, there is always some danger in universalizing the particular. Writing gives shape and form to unknown, but not all shapes fit all holes.

Dry Creek and a Sunday Song: "Amazing Grace" Performed by Rod Stewart

This is late, I know, but I thought it was more important to be a dad Easter and less important to be a blog-writer.  It's not often that I get my priorities right, but yesterday I did, and as a result it was perhaps the best Easter I've experienced.  Anyway, enjoy Dry Creek and a Sunday Song.

It's Saturday morning, the sun warm and bright; the leaves of the small aspen in the planter on the deck of outdoor kitchen flicker in the light; pansies in the hanging baskets glow, golden yellow.  Spring is here.  Dry Creek is no longer dry.  It started running sometime yesterday afternoon, a month late, due to the drought. But the leaves are open, the fields green.  Today, we will prepare the beds for Marci's garden for cutting flowers.  No doubt tonight we will be worn out and ready tomorrow for Dry Creek and a Sunday Song Easter morning.

This week I picked "Amazing Grace" performed by Rod Stewart as my Sunday Song.  One of the most familiar songs in the English speaking world, most people are at least somewhat familiar with its history, so I'll keep the text brief.  "Amazing Grace" was written by John Newton (1725-1807).  Although in later life Newton was a poet and clergyman, before his conversion, he had been a captain of a slave ship.

I step out the sliding glass doors into the glorious morning.  It is warm without a cloud in the sky.  The first thing I see is our partially completed outdoor kitchen, which will house the grill and a snack bar as well as provide morning shade to half of the outdoor dining area.

Part of the deck for the unfinished outdoor kitchen.

Because John Newton had been quite the opposite of a religious man early in life, having earned the reputation as one of the most profane sailors who wrote obscene songs, and because his conversion came slowly with many relapses into his old lifestyle before he finally conquered his demons, he is a perfect example of the power of the atonement described so powerfully in his song.

Darth, our beautiful Border Collie mix, who we rescued from starvation one winter when we lived on the Navajo reservation, is waiting for me, anxious for our walk.

Newton's conversion began March 1748 when aboard the Greyhound in the North Atlantic.  A violent storm struck and swept one of Newton's shipmates overboard.  Newton rose to the occasion and took control of the wheel of ship, and while Navigating the storm, he pondered his divine challenge.

First, we walk over towards Grandpa's Orchard, three old apricot trees that were part of the original farm when my stepfather purchased the property in 1978.

After that, Newton began to question whether he had been worthy of God's mercy and believed that the storm had been a divine wake-up call.

Darth and I head down into the main canyon, Chalk Creek, amble down the narrow, rocky road, then back through a thicket of cottonwood to the big creek.  Sunlight reflects off the water and mesmerizes me while further down stream Darth splashes about, something she doesn't do often. 

Slowly, Newton put his life together around his religious principles.  He courted a woman he had loved, Mary "Polly" Catlett, and was patient with her parents, who at first did not except him due to his previous life.  Eventually, he married her and worked as a customs agent.  During this time he began to teach himself Latin, Greek and theology.  Friends were so inspired by his passion that they suggested he become a priest, and in 1764 he was offered the curacy of Olney, Buckinghamshire.

Darth and I head up Dry Creek, our canyon.  The leaves are small and sprite and as luck would have it, the new water of the season is just reaching where we cross.  I can actually walk in front of the water on the dry creek bed and afterword watch the shiny liquid fill in the dark shadowy crevices.

Dry Creek Canyon

The poem, "Amazing Grace" was written late in 1772, published anonymously in 1779 and set to the current tune, "New Britain," in 1835.  Ever since then, folk music and perhaps even our experience of Grace have not quite been the same.

Darth and I stop, take in the gentle grace of the new, living water of Dry Creek, as I reflect on the meaning of Easter Morning. 

Thanks to Wikipedia for the information on "Amazing Grace."

In the Eternal Moment: A Poem About Teaching & Van Morrison's "Village Idiot"

In the Eternal Moment

Grading papers late into the afternoon

when the sun must surely shine dazzling

down upon tulips and daffodils

never viewed from this windowless classroom.

So much is read, so little drank in.

Where are the winds?  Where are the woods?

Where are the reeds?   Where is the water?

Where are the sails?   Where is the soul?

How do I sell the light

in the golden afternoon?

How do I convey walking

down these cobblestone words
through shipyards

and fish factories centuries

past, and out

over the seawall and into

the bay?

Walk on water, walk on water:

water, words, air, soil, soot,

earth, always the earth,

calling us back

to the moment

deep and lasting.

How do I convey

that the poem exists

in the space between

so much depends

and what

follows?

© Steve Brown, 2014

Dry Creek and a Sunday Song: “If You Could Hie to Kolob”

I recently watched an interview where film-maker, M. Night Shyamalan, explained his success this way:  “I’m more me than they are them”--or something real close to that.

Perhaps that is a little over-simplified.  There is scientific research that suggests that greatness, as determined by the world, though tied to talent, is as much a matter of chance as it is a matter of quality.  Still, it rings true: in a world of fronting, we crave authenticity.  That has always been my attraction to the music John Lennon.  As a song writer, no matter what stage of his life, John was thoroughly John.  The same is true of Bob Marley or William Carlos Williams.  As artists, there is something lasting about being you.

Sometimes that is a struggle.  We are complex.  Who am I?

For a couple of weeks now, I’ve wanted to post another “Dry Creek and a Sunday Song” entry for a particular Mormon hymn, but I’ve resisted.  I can’t find a video I like.  All of them are too “Mormony” for me.  They reek of Mormonism.  I guess I’m trying to serve two masters, God and Mammon.

There’s much in Mormon culture that I’m proud of: the Salt Lake Temple, the Manti Temple, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and many of the hymns.  For instance, there is no doubt that “Come, Come Ye Saints” is a great work of art.  But then there is a whole array of art that in my mind could grace the cover of a Jehovah Witness pamphlet.  I’m not demeaning the Jehovah Witnesses.  I don’t know enough about their doctrine to judge, but artistically speaking, they seem to be the backwaters of Christian culture.  Mormonism, I have to admit, sometimes feels the same.

There is no reason for me to be Mormon other the fact that I believe Joseph Smith did exactly what he claimed: he restored the power of Christ's church to the earth.  In the past, I always had to fight to be me within Mormon culture.  As a youth, it seemed youth activities were always centered around basketball and scouts, athleticism and conformity—two qualities that just do not fit my individual, renegade soul well.  I could never shine in that environment.  I have zero kinesthetic drive or ability, and my mind has never worked remotely like anyone else’s.  Mormon culture, in short, hid my talent under a bushel.

And yet I was very unhappy when I walked away from the church precisely because I do believe.  I worked hard to not believe, but there was a part of me that always remembered the spiritual confirmation—the warm, peaceful affirmation—this is good, this is light that I received when reading the Joseph Smith account when I was twelve years old.

However, now that I’ve come back to the church, I no longer feel the isolation I felt as a child because like M. Night Shyamalan, I’ m learning to be thoroughly me.  And once you’re comfortable in your own skin, others are at ease around you too, even if you’re not like them.

I’m still quiet.  I still usually don’t have much to say, but when I do, it’s worthwhile and people value it.  And whether they do or not doesn't really matter—if I have anything of value to offer the world, it can only be my authenticity.  Sometime around the time that I read the first vision account—I don’t remember if it was before or after— I made a pact with myself that for the rest of my life I would be honest.  I failed at so many things after that, but that is one thing I've been able to do consistently.  I don’t always live up to my word.  I make promises that I don’t keep, but when it comes to telling the truth as I see it, even in times when it is counterproductive to what I want, I have kept the oath I made as a child.  As a result, the one thing I’m good at is authenticity.  It is my one and only gift that I have to offer the world.  It is why I write well and why I teach well.  I am able to fully enter a moment and bare witness what that moment feels like.

So, now I would now like to offer the world the Mormon hymn, “If You Could Hie to Kolob” which I find absolutely brilliant, even when wrapped in a culture that quite frankly sometimes gives me the willies.  I’m just not the type of guy to hang a picture of Jesus in my living room or post pre-made spiritual messages on facebook.   It’s not that I don’t believe—I do, fervently—but I want my message to be authentically me.  So, I wish the New York Dolls covered this hymn, because they’d do it like I would if I could, but they don’t, so here it is, wrapped up all Mormony, and  followed by the lyrics and thoughts:

If you could hie to Kolob

In the twinkling of an eye,

And then continue onward

With that same speed to fly,

Do you think that you could ever,

Through all eternity,

Find out the generation

Where Gods began to be?

Mormon doctrine allows for a grand view of the universe.  In A Pale Blue Dot, Carl Sagan asks the following:

“How is it that hardly any major religion has looked at science and concluded, “This is better than we thought! The Universe is much bigger than our prophets said, grander, more subtle, more elegant?” Instead they say, “No, no, no! My god is a little god, and I want him to stay that way.” A religion, old or new, that stressed the magnificence of the Universe as revealed by modern science might be able to draw forth reserves of reverence and awe hardly tapped by the conventional faiths.” 

Mormonism, from its inception, has stressed such a universe.  Long before any planets were identified outside our solar system, Joseph Smith knew worlds without end like our own existed.  Kolob refers to a planet described in the Book of Abraham, first published in the Times and Seasons in 1842 and now included in the Pearl of Great Price, part of the cannon of Mormonism.  Kolob is referred to as a star, but is more likely a planet.  In Abraham it says:

And I saw the stars, that they were very great, and that one of them was nearest unto the throne of God; and there were many great ones which were near unto it; 

And the Lord said unto me:  These are the governing ones: and the name of the great one is Kolob, because it is near unto me, for I am the Lord thy God:  I have set this one to govern all those which belong to the same order as that upon which thou standest.  [Abraham 3: 2-3, Pearl of Great Price]

That science would find planets outside our solar systems is totally expected in Mormonism.  Magnificence beyond our comprehension is our world view.  Eternity from our perspective is eternal.  7,000 years is not grand enough to contain our creation:

Or see the grand beginning,

Where space did not extend?

Or view the last creation,

Where Gods and matter end?

Methinks the Spirit whispers,

“No man has found ‘pure space,’

Nor seen outside curtains,

Where nothing has a place.”

The big bang—where space did not extend—sure.   But, probably not just one.  Rather, universe after universe, creation everlasting.  Again, this aligns well with the ideas of modern astronomy.

The works of God continue,

And worlds and lives abound;

Improvement and progression

Have one eternal round.

There is no end to matter;

There is no end to space;

There is no end to spirit;

There is no end to race.

There is no end to virtue;

There is no end to might;

There is no end to wisdom;

There is no end to light.

There is no end to union;

There is no end to youth;

There is no end to priesthood;

There is no end to truth.

There is no end to glory;

There is no end to love;

There is no end to being;

There is no death above.

There is no end to glory;

There is no end to love;

There is no end to being;

There is no death above.

Text: William W. Phelps, 1792-1872

I testify that that although the universe is grand beyond all comprehension by man, through the spirit, we each can know our particular role in it through direct revelation received as an answer to personal prayers.  For the ultimate glory of God is that he is both grand enough to command creation (through whatever natural laws) and intimate enough to know each of us personally.

May this Sunday morning in our niches of creation be dazzling dappled and grander, more subtle, more elegant than it was yesterday.  May our eyes, minds, hearts and books be open.  May we kneel before the alter, sit zazen, run toward the sunrise, prostrate ourselves towards  Mecca, look through our microscopes, our telescopes, into the eyes of our loved ones, into the eyes of our enemies, into each other’s hearts, into each other’s souls.

May we think big and precise.

May we be grand, not petty.

Have a great Sunday.

One Almost Perfect Moment: Grading Papers Listening to Van Morrison's "I'm Not Feeling It Anymore"

When Golden Saxophones Abound

Listening to Van Morrison

while grading papers

on a cold gray afternoon

is almost perfect—the slow, sure

unwinding--I swear, you could

almost reach heaven doing taxes

if you were playing

“I’m Not Feeling It Anymore,”  

the BBC Four Sessions.

Um.  Come On.

Red brick nights.

Cool blue moons.

Life shouldn't,

I say, life shouldn't be

staplers

and paper

thin

dreams

© Steve Brown, 2014