Amazon
A while back I bought a compilation book of quotes from Madeleine L’Engle’s various works. The book is swollen with wisdom, brimming over with revelation-inducing insight. I had said months ago that I would do this, write through this book and journal my thoughts on each of the quotes. Well, today is the first day. My goal is not to make a meme out of Madeleine. She is more than that, more than a fad. I picked Monday because it is our starting point for the new week. Every Monday is new to us, and I want you to have a clear start to the week through Madeleine’s experiences and knowledge so that it holds you for days. My input is merely to relate what she says to my own life, in learning how to find my own way through the advice she gives.
The first section of the book is called Serving the Gift: Artists and Their Art.
Giving Birth
“I’ve experienced the pain and the joy of the birth of babies and the birth of books, and there’s nothing like it. When a child who’s been conceived in love is born to a man and wife, I think the joy of that birth sings throughout the universe. The joy of writing or of composing is much the same thing. I think all our lives are a process of births, of continuous births. And each of these births does involve pain.”
I’m going through a difficult time right now. I used to see who I wanted to be so clearly, but that image has been fogged with illusions from Satan. I am constantly fighting him these days, and, most unfortunately, I think I’ve been letting him beat me. It happens when I stall, when I’m not sure which way to move, and I end up sinking into weak habits that bring nothing but emptiness and confusion.
Often in this book, Madeleine L’Engle: Herself, she talks of pairing yourself with God to create a body of work, which more or less means “to die to self,” giving over full artistic faith in the work, and therefore God. This idea makes me wonder if that is why I’m doing so poorly in trying to write my book. For one thing, I’m not as paired with God as I like to believe I am. I’d rather live my life the way I want and believe that it’s the life God is wanting me to live, but that’s not at all how it’s supposed to work. So when I sit down to write in the moments I’m not overwhelmingly inspired, I bring my whole self to the table and orchestrate so consciously as to second-guess the word’s as they’re cropping up along the screen. I don’t sacrifice my own wants in order to give the writing enough breathing room to function properly.
I have a hard time returning to it every day, which is to say, I don’t. I haven’t worked on my book in a while. One day I may feel inspired to do so, then there are a string of days, even weeks, in which I avoid it altogether. I think this is because I don’t know how to be a medium. I don’t let God get close enough to use me to tell this story. I am like a child with a broken toy who insists on carrying it around and playing with its misshapen pieces, refusing the man who can help me fix it and make it into something purposeful again.
The most horrible realization that comes from this particular quote is understanding that I don’t love God the way I should, which is to say I can’t possibly understand love in all its various shapes. I struggle with it, because even during the day, and not just when I avoid writing, I do my absolute best to avoid people. Not all people, but most. And what is a story made up of if not souls? Even in the writing of animals, we humanize them, give them feelings and desires and other animals with which to converse. But love is all about sacrifice, when it comes down to it. If we love God, we sacrifice certain things in order to live by His word. If we love our friend, we sacrifice certain things in order to ensure their happiness. If we love a man or woman, we sacrifice the life we once had to form a new one with them. And if God gives us a gift, and we love him and are thankful, then we sacrifice our selfish ways in order to fully appreciate that gift.
Which means I may not be as appreciative as I like to think, either. Here I’ve had this story planted in my mind, nourished for four years, and what do I do with it? Nothing. I can’t stop feeding my emotions long enough to die to myself and write the thing. The story can’t be born from me with love, because I haven’t paired myself with God, dying to self and putting my faith in the work. I try to keep my faith in my own hands, instead of putting it in the hands of someone stronger, braver, wiser.