Ever Forward

Where I am strong and confident, I have the ability to root around and seek weak spots to improve. And there actually are places like that inside me. Places where I actually do go looking for ways to grow. There are also places where I’m so insecure that I have my hands full with whatever comes up. I don’t need to go looking for weak spots. The weak spots haunt my steps. My therapist often points to a process of building bridges between the places where I’m strong and the places where I’m weak. The idea is to set up a kind of commerce between the two whereby my weak places import shipments of confidence and strength across the bridges. A fluid import export process between areas of weakness and areas of strength will integrate the parts of my being. With a fluid process, I will always have weak spots, but those weak spots will get the support they need from the places of strength. The result would be an overall increase in life ability, less fear, more unique contribution; a human being energized and free in spite of his frailty. That’s what I’m TALKIN’ about. Ever forward.

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Last week I had to report for jury duty. The standard response people give when you tell them that is one of sympathetic exasperation followed by suggestions for how to avoid actually serving. Granted, much of this is only in jest, but a large number of my fellow potential jurors went into the selection room bent on not serving. They answered yes or no to every possible question where yes or no might improve their chances of dismissal. The girl beside me actually showed defiance, and like those of her ilk with whom I had contact, seemed to think everyone around her shared her feelings. To be fair, this presumption occurred to varying degrees of earnestness, and many people only joked along these lines. But even then it seemed like they regarded this resistance to jury duty as a common denominator, a place where we could all come together for a tension breaker. Even if inside we really don't feel that hesitation, we're still expected to understand. I found that interesting. Why is that hesitation prevalent to the point of representing common ground? It's interesting to note that the Jury of 12 process has been around for 600 years. I wonder if this repugnance at serving has been around as long? But it's also interesting to note that trials by jury used to be attended by the public as a form of entertainment. It seems logical that at some point in its history serving on a jury must have carried some prestige. So what happened? Whatever happened, nowadays the hesitation to serve is like a default setting, a conditioned response, or something we do because everyone else does. I wonder how many people are even aware of it. I wonder how many people really feel that way. I wonder because from the moment I got the letter to appear I felt different. I wasn't eager and I wasn't unaware of the inconvenience, but I felt interested. I can't really explain why, but the whole idea felt like an opportunity and whenever someone expressed their sympathetic exasperation, I found it hard to respond. Strictly speaking I wasn't chosen. I was one of the few remaining candidates after the attorneys eliminated the rest. But I served on a jury in a criminal trial. Looking back I see what the selection process meant to me and I wonder if any of my fellow jurors would understand. It was an opportunity: an opportunity to separate myself from the heard, which seemed intent on gathering around the watering hole of hesitation to serve. It was a glimpse into what makes the heard the heard and a moment of clarity on my connection to it. I got to see one of the conditioned mob responses we all share. I feel that response, too, but I was able to recognize it for what it is: an autopilot reflex that I've learned. It's not how I really feel. Having a glimpse of that difference playing out inside myself is invaluable. Ever forward.

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Most of us, however we claim to desire freedom, are simply not capable of it. Too easily, the responsibility required by true freedom shuts down the impulse to transcend slavery before it can become anything more than a vague dissatisfaction, or a passing wishful thought. But freedom is not a nicety. Freedom is not a pleasant state of being. Freedom is like wildness, and wildness is both utterly creative, and frightfully dangerous.

As human beings, we have the ability to harness our own wildness, to direct our creative power into solid, useful things that serve our well being. All motivation to power is driven by the need to be safe, or more directly, the need to eliminate threat. But the lack of safety, the presence of threat, is at the heart of freedom. Again, freedom is not the absence of enslavement. Rather, it is the constant reference to its possibility.

To live with that tension requires mental, emotional, and spiritual maturity. One must learn to be certain in uncertainty. Once the possibility of total ruin is embraced and factored in, it is possible to truly take responsibility for self, and not rely on power structures, protectors, religions, governments, even families or relationships—any of the constructs we’ve developed, whether healthy or escapist—for our sense of well being and security. That must come from the clarity of our own connection to the life giving-energy of reality.

Americans are not free, even in the political or economic sense. We think we are, we even insist that we are. We spend the greater part of our intellectual and emotional energy perpetuating the illusion of freedom, which amounts to energy spent on the refusal to take responsibility for our real situation. We continue to rely on power structures, protectors, religions, governments, families and relationships—whether healthy or escapist—to provide us, as individuals, with a sense of well being, and even our sense of our own worth. That we can continue to ignore, en masse, the political and economic dimensions of our enslavement, however fully they reveal themselves before our very eyes, is evidence that we are not, as a group, ready for the alternative.

A person who is not his own source of power, can be pushed around. It happens in the checkout line, it happens at the auto dealership, it happens on the job. It happens in far more obvious and ugly situations where people quietly allow themselves to be abused, or even brutalized. It happens whenever we are in the presence of a power we consider greater than our own, or worse, when we place the responsibility for our own power in the hands of another—a spouse, a boss, a so-called lover, a substance. And a society of people who are not the source of their own power can be pushed around as a group. It happens in congress, at the polls, and in the façade of the presidential campaign, where the sheer number of candidates is presented to us as evidence of choice. The fact that we continue to buy the illusion means that we are not ready for the alternative.  

But the real trouble is in every individual heart. It is the weak, fearful heart, seeking to eliminate threat that both perpetrates, and tolerates, injustice. We will never be free as a group until we are free as individuals. We live in a society of individuals who, for the most part, are not the source of our own power. The result is our current collective condition, which produces our current, collective situation. And there will always be individuals and groups ready to prey upon that condition for their own gain. Revolution after revolution has been fought all through history. That none has ever produced a lasting, failsafe environment is evidence that the one true revolution has yet to be fought—the revolution of self.  

We live in a world filled with people who are psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually blocked. That simply cannot yield a healthy environment conducive to general prosperity. It will always yield an adversarial situation in which someone tries to put it over on everyone else, and vice-versa. There will be no change in the system—at the top or at the bottom—until there is change in the individual. It’s just as important to stop tolerating crimes as it is to stop committing them. Until we claim the dignity we each bear as human beings, and demand from our world and neighbors the respect entitled to that dignity, nothing will change. There really is no other way to begin. Being satisfied with the ebb and flow of history is not acceptable. That is why it’s so important to wage the inner war, to seek the ways in which I sell myself out, and become capable—not worthy, but CAPABLE—of being free.

It’s the subtitle of this blog: If you do not transcend your own psychology, you can be controlled.

Ever forward.

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Letting go. It’s the oldest spiritual teaching in the world: just let go. But it’s always new somehow. It always seems to come back around as if I’ve never heard it or thought of it before. I think that feeling comes from a change in the substance of reality itself, the fiber of existence. When it’s time to let go of something, that fiber has changed and the very air I’m breathing is different. Reality moves on with or without my cooperation. By letting go and by growing, I’m able both to contribute to the evolution of things, and also get some relief from the pain of unconstructive attachment.

“Behold, I make all things new.”

I just got back from my honeymoon, so, I’m married now! Safe to say these past few months have been a time of change and transition. On the surface I’ve been aware of that all along. But what happens under the surface is always unexpected. I’ve become very good and interpreting my experience, at monitoring and taking note of the evolution of my life. But I’ve never gotten used to the way it feels when real inner change takes place. The odd thing is, when it comes, the feeling is always familiar. I recognize it. It’s a peaceful feeling, reassuring, and yet filled with the anticipation of new challenges. Then, when it passes—and it always does—I can’t recall it. I don’t mean I can’t remember what it feels like. I mean lose awareness that it even exists. Then, when it comes back, it always takes me by surprise, and I always know it inside and out. It’s like a room I keep popping in and out of. And when I’m not in it, I have no idea it’s there. But when I am, I know every cupboard, every drawer.

These days I’m there again, and I feel this strong pull to let go of things. Not abandon them, not give them up, but to loosen my grip. To just let them be there. I’m living with this strong sense of “I thought I knew what I needed, but now I see there’s more to it.” And it’s okay with me to realize that. I have an openness to correction from the universe. Over and over again in my life—and now once again—I’ve had the sense that the universe is saying to me: “Okay, now we can begin.”

I used to be in such a hurry. I still am, but not like I used to be. I’ll be 39 this month. Not old, but not so young anymore. No problem. I’ve decided that games, all games, get won in the second half. The first half was good. But I spent the first twenty years just finding my feet. As I enter the second half I’m not concerned with time slipping away. I’m more concerned with time running out. I feel like I’ve got so much to do. But that’s a blessing. I’d rather be driven mad by vision, than by a lack of it. I’ve become aware of this strong desire to have something to show for the passage of time. A marriage full of memories and closeness, shared risk and accomplishment; a list of completed stories; Embryonic Journey, The Claw, and maybe even Classical Gas, all mastered on the guitar. These are the trophies of the work it takes to become who I really am. “Yes,” I’ll say. “I’m seventy years old. And look at what I’ve learned. Look at what I’ve done. Look at how I spent that time.” I used to note that I was lucky to make it through my twenties with my idealism intact. It’s safely encased in my perspective and nothing can take it away now. As I look ahead I realize I’m more capable now of achieving my ideals than I ever have been. And my biggest obstacle, impatience, seems finally to be giving ground.

This mantra appeared in my head recently: “Let it take years.” I didn’t read it, I didn’t hear it. It just appeared in my head. Like myself telling me something. Let it take years. It’s good advice, I think. And besides, do I really have a choice?

Ever forward.

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Recently, my fiancé and I watched No Direction Home, the Martin Scorsese documentary about Bob Dylan. I liked everything about it, but this quote from Dylan jumped out at me and stuck: 

“An artist has got to be careful never really to arrive at a place where he thinks he's 'at' somewhere. You always have to realize that you're constantly in a state of becoming, you know? And as long as you can stay in that realm you'll sort of be all right.”

It got me thinking about my own experience of that “state of becoming,” and my own idea of what it means to be “'at' somewhere.” For Dylan, it meant moving from one incredible, high-profile artistic accomplishment toward another. He puts it this way: “In taking all the elements that I'd ever known to make wide, sweeping statements which conveyed a feeling that was the general essence of the spirit of the times; I think I managed to do that.” And then he goes on:  “I thought that I needed to press on, and get as far into it as I could.”

But what about the rest of us—those of us in the more modest echelon's of accomplishment? To understand what Bob Dylan means, you don't need to be Bob Dylan, or even Larry Fitzsimmons. (Never heard of Larry Fitzsimmons? Exactly.) I think Dylan is describing a basic human experience, something we must all face if we embrace our creativity. 

So, what is this “state of becoming?” I imagine it has aspects that are universally true, and aspects that are unique for each of us who experience it. As for the universal aspects, lot of people talk about the drive to create. An editor once told me that a writer is someone who “can't not write.” Herman Hesse talks about “obeying the inner command.” Bob Dylan had this sense that he had to get further in. Jimi Hendrix spoke of hearing sounds in his head he could not create with his guitar. Vincent van Gogh went crazy trying to portray the way he saw the world. Salvador Dali seems to have started out crazy and been successful at portraying his vision, but his drive to do that was unstoppable. James Joyce had to invent a whole new mode of language before he could even begin. I think artists are stuck with something they need to articulate or portray. In Dylan's case, he did it. But then he found that drive, that inner command, hadn't gone away. The same thing happened to Jesus. In dying, he found he wasn't “there” yet. “It is finished,” he said as he expired. But that was just the human part of him craving respite. The fact is, he was wrong. It wasn't finished. It was only just beginning.

A constant state of becoming. You might expect to find a moment of relief when the thing is done. Maybe that expectation is what keeps the artist moving. But Dylan was an expert artist, like Shakespeare, and the expectation of rest is exactly what he warns us against. He knew that once you begin, really begin, you can't ever stop. In the gospel of Luke, Jesus says it plainly: “He who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is not worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven. (Luke 9:62)” He was talking about the act of becoming. That sense of “Kingdom” is the thing that calls us on. That's Hesse's inner command. Once you heed it, you're in for keeps, or you must embrace a life of denial and disguised confusion. When Jesus says “not worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven,” I think he means “not capable” of it. And in the gospel of Matthew he says: “What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life? (Matthew 16:26)” By which he means: “Better to have nothing: no success, no recognition, no money, but continue to discover who you are, than to get all those things, and stop.”

There is no rest, really. Just the danger of stopping. If I can just this or that... or... If only such and such, then... Then? Then what? THEN I'll be able to relax. THEN I'll get into that other project that seems like such a good idea. THEN I'll feel like I've made it... For me, it contains a little of this: “If I could just make enough to live on from this project, I'd be happy.”

I think that's exactly the “'at' somewhere” Dylan is warning us against.

Becoming seems to be a painful process. I think we use our minds to explain our feelings, so we can feel like we know what's going on with ourselves. So, I connect an objective to my feeling of becoming, and convince myself in lots of subtle ways that achieving that objective is what will make the feeling go away. When really I'm just feeling the sharp edge of creativity, and nothing will make it stop. What if my life as an artist consists solely of forever trying to get started—really trying, not making excuses. Not only might I never achieve recognition, but I might also, no matter how I work, never even accomplish anything. And yet the command beckons. That desire for a sense of Kingdom won't leave me alone. Would I still be willing to heed it? Could I even choose not to? In a messed up, broken human psyche, that fear of never getting there may be the inner command in disguise. It spurs me on, doesn't it? It keeps me moving. For some reason, however discouraged I become, I never seem to quit. That's GOT to count for something, even if it's only because I'm afraid of never being "'at' somewhere." And even at the height of achievement, I bet it never goes away. If van Gogh were to say to me: “I never got there, I never really even got started,” I don't think I'd be surprised.

It's very possible that one day I will make enough money to live on just from writing my books. I wonder how that will feel. I think I can assume I'll be tempted to stop. But I don't think I'll stop feeling the call. I'll be given new orders by the High Inner Command. Whatever relief comes with achievement must be fleeting. I know it has always been so for me. That's why Dylan had to keep going. That's why Larry Fitzsimmons has to keep going. If I achieve what, at this moment, I think I'm trying to achieve, I won't be finished. I'll just be getting started. I'll still be a resident of the Realm of Constant Becoming. 

Ever forward.

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“Therefore the skilled commander seeks victory from the situation and does not demand it of his subordinates.” —Sun Tzu, The Art of War

War is serious business. People die. In war, it's got to be preferable to have as much certainty as possible—to make decisions on facts, take no chances, etc. In other words, be in control. All the fear-based motivational mechanisms we find in everyday life must certainly be present on the battlefield, probably in heightened form. So for a general to actually rely on—not make the best of, but RELY ON—the circumstances in order to achieve victory, is pretty radical. 

Sun Tzu and I have something in common. We're both trying to achieve something. He wants to win wars, I want to build a story-culture. I'm still working off an inspiration I felt years ago, and it's pretty specific. If I am the general in Sun Tzu's statement, then my subordinates are things like my writing or my publishing. I mustn't demand victory of them. Victory is my responsibility, not theirs. In choosing them, I should be choosing the “subordinates” best suited to my objective, which is a fulfilling life—which for me means a life in which my talents, my creativity and building my dream of a story-culture are my occupation and livelihood. To me, that would be a victory.

But rely on the unknown? Yes, I think so. It takes a big psychological and emotional toll, but it's true. I must come not only to trust in, but actually to rely upon the unknown. After all, it's a huge part of life. Most of reality is totally invisible. We can perceive about 2% of what's actually there. (I made that number up.) But even if I can't perceive the whole thing, I do interact with it through my thoughts and actions. Even if I can't perceive it, it still has a huge influence on me. 

As the unknown emerges into the known, circumstances change. Details change. We can learn to regard these new details as information, clues, or communications from the unknown. But sometimes my circumstances seem to contradict my inspiration. Since I'm sure I've chosen the right path, I can't just abandon it when I don't perceive progress. I have to wait. Waiting can be really hard for me. It's even harder than failure. In waiting, one can feel truly powerless. One might think that waging a war would be the ultimate opportunity for control. Sun Tzu says just the opposite. He advises us to “become like water”. Water flows over smooth ground and rough ground alike. Water flowing among stones may stop and pool. If I wait, the pool will deepen, overflow the rocks, and continue to flow. There is a difference between power and control. Jesus had power. Hitler had control.

A more advanced form of simply trusting in the unknown is viewing the unknown as a resource, or better yet, an ally. In the novel Damien, by Herman Hesse, the main character is told “Your destiny loves you, it wants you to find it.” (I paraphrased that—I can't find the book at the moment.) So it helps to believe in the ultimate benevolence of the universe. It's consoling, yes, because there's so much pain in the world. But it's also empowering. It enables the trust which allows us to more easily plug into and participate in the great creative force. When I say empowering, I don't mean encouraging. I mean EMPOWERING, in the sense that it bestows power. Winning total victory in a large scale war is no more a manifestation of power than is creating a heartfelt, emotionally exposed painting, or raising a child, or, say, shooting fire out of my fingertips. Sun Tzu is talking about magic, directed at your project of choice.

Ever forward. 

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“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.” I wish I'd said that. But I didn't. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe did. I initially encountered that quote on a card my cousin gave me when I set out to publish my first book. And it's the only thing by Goethe I've ever read, so I'm making no claims at scholarship here. But the words stuck with me. Partly because they ring true, partly because that card is tacked to my bulletin board. I tend to zero in on three of the eighteen words: begin, boldness, and magic. It takes boldness to begin. Beginning unlocks magic. The power of beginning cannot be overstated. A lot of people get hung up on being sure, on “knowing where to begin.” One of the few true cliché's in life is, “I don't know where to begin.” Hogwash. You do know. You begin at the beginning. And that's all a beginning is for—to get you started. “Whatever you can do, or dream you can ... .” Those words are no less important than the three I singled out. They help you identify your starting point, and you'll notice, they offer a fairly broad sweep. It's like writer's block. People think writer's block is the inability to think of something to write. That's false. Writer's block is not liking the ideas you're coming up with. It's being afraid of them, embarrassed by them, ashamed of them. It takes a Zen master years to achieve a totally empty mind. Can it really be as easy as we writers claim? You mean all that meditation and discipline can be replaced by simply sitting down and picking up a pen? Nonsense. Most writers are cursed with far too many ideas, not a dearth of them. The problem we struggle with is picking one. But here again, it doesn't matter which one you pick. The right one will come along if you just get moving. It's like a log jam. Get those first few tiresome ideas out of the way by writing them down, and the rest will break free. Writing down useless ideas is a useful thing to do. Take this blog for instance. My own experience as a writer is an example of this process. I once read that when you set out to write a book, you may have to write an entire novel just to get it out of the way so you can write the novel you're really trying to write. That seems like a terrible waste of time. I remember the years, YEARS, of frustration I went through when I was trying to get Silverlance written. I remember a night, in the monastery in Ireland, when I went out to the burn barrel with about 500 pages of material. It was the middle of the night. I was all alone. I burned all 500 pages. I did it because I was frustrated. I had poured all this thought and heart and hope into all this work that had added up to nothing. Or so I thought. About a month later I sat down to start again and I had this explosion of ideas that I will never forget. Suddenly the whole thing was clear. I wrote for about 12 hours straight and got it all out. Somewhere in that process I realized that all the work of the previous years had been exploration crucial to understanding the details of what I was about to do. I needed to explore the territory by creating it. Now I write from that knowledge—knowledge I could not have reached any other way. Those 500 pages were not a waste of time. I had a whole lot more to show for my efforts than I first imagined. I think life is like that. All the trial and error is not wasted time. Just begin. Do SOMETHING. Sculpt. Write. Paint. Study plants or bugs or economics. Pick something that interests you and begin. That magic Goethe mentioned won't—can't— kick in until you do. Destiny is waiting. Desire is the first sign of talent. Talent is the first sign of destiny. The motion of beginning will open a door you didn't know was there. Go through it. You'll find another door. Go through that one, too. That's how it works. And it really is magic. That's the only word for it. Ever forward.

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A lot of people experience fear about following their heart. This is because the demands of the heart tend to involve risk. Most people are taught to play it safe—find the job, get the salary and health insurance, and so on. That's all well and good, but for a lot of people it means giving up on, or avoiding outright, the things that lead to real happiness. 

The mechanisms inside us that cripple our dreams are powerful. Fear, doubt, feeling overwhelmed, the list is long. But careful observation might reveal a pattern. Here's an example: “Every time I get an idea for what I'd really love to do with my life, I feel overwhelmed and I don't know where to begin. It seems impossible.” For many people, a great idea can cause what seems like the opposite of inspiration. It can create the desire to run and hide. Any initial feeling of elation or possibility is quickly overwhelmed by the shadows of doubt and inferiority. 

Amazingly, those very feelings are affirmation that the new possibility is to be taken seriously. Those of us who suffer from it will only experience that debilitating doubt in the presence of what might fulfill us. The mechanism is there specifically to cause self-defeat. It doesn't serve any other purpose. So, a person born to be a writer probably won't feel overwhelmed with doubt at the prospect of becoming a brain surgeon. That experience will be more like, “Nah, don't think I'll be a brain surgeon.” But when the idea for a book or article is proposed, that same person might experience something like a train wreck inside. All that means is that it really is a good idea, it really does come from your core, you really should follow it. Sadly, the very thing that should cause a thrill of adventurous confidence goes in reverse. There are lots of reasons for this, but they aren't really important. In the end, the important thing is going after that dream.  

Inspiration can happen in reverse. It's because we're human, and humans are messed up. Developing yourself to the point where you do feel that adventurous confidence, instead of its crippling opposite, is a separate fight. But in the mean time, knowing how to interpret those feelings for the best can go a long way to managing them and, ultimately, making them work for you.

Ever forward.

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A sketch of a wülken, a creature that appears in Haunted Mountain: The Tales of True Adventure, Book 2. This image was done, as was the book cover, by Jim Nelson. The wülken will figure in bigger and bigger as the Tales progress.  

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"Tell me lord," Éomer says to Aragorn, “what doom do you bring out of the North?” “The doom of choice,” said Aragorn. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien Doom is an interesting word. Webster's 10th Edition Collegiate Dictionary defines it several ways, and most of them reflect death or destruction. One reads: “To make certain the failure or destruction of.” But another is, “a law or ordinance, esp. in Anglo-Saxon England,” and another is simply, “Judgement.” William Morris (one of Tolkien's primary influences), in The Roots of the Mountains, uses the word Doom in an interesting way. The people of the story have a meeting place called a “Doom-ring,” where they meet to discuss important matters: “such as great manslayings and bloodwites, or the making of war or ending of it ... .” Doom, in this sense is more like “situation.” What's our situation? What's our doom? Loosening the definition of the word Doom helps me get inside Aragorn's answer to Éomer's question: “The doom of choice.” Choice is an interesting word too, and its significance is often underestimated. To choose one thing is, necessarily, to reject all the other options. That's where a lot of people get stuck. That potential loss is why choice can feel like a burden. But the ability to choose carries amazing power. It's the ability to unlock the potential of each moment, and shape the course of things. To choose is to bring one thing into being, and not another. It's like having the power of life and death over the details of existence. It's as simple as what flavor ice cream to choose, and as complex as how to negotiate peace between hostile nations. Both choices literally change the world, maybe not noticeably, but if one detail changes, that's change. Choosing vanilla might lead to an enjoyable ice cream experience, followed by a movie. Choosing chocolate might lead to a stained shirt, followed by a movie, then a trip to the dry cleaners the next day, where you meet your soul mate. Choice is like a chisel for sculpting the future. If you want your statue to look a certain way, then each cut makes a difference. Being aware of any and all possible consequences is important, but it's impossible to foresee them all. So being willing to accept them and work with them is vital. I consider my situation, my doom, as closely as I may, then I choose. My choice alters my situation and creates new details, with new choices. I've just changed history. Then I choose again and it starts all over. I choose again, and so on. In LOTR, the need for choice, the Doom-ness of it, is highly intensified because of the life and death situation everyone is in. But it's easy to not feel that edge in the everyday world of 21st century America. To be a person of destiny, however, is to keep that edge sharp, to feel the pressure to choose at all times, because something big hinges on the choices you make. To be a person of destiny is to be a person for whom choice is a constant doom, that is, for whom choice is always, daily, moment to moment, inevitable. “None may live now as they have lived,” Aragorn continues. The truth is, we're all in a life and death situation at every moment, we're just good at not noticing it. The power to choose can make the difference between life and a long slow, unnoticed death by creeping mediocrity. Ever forward.

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