Ever Forward

Seth Godin has another fine post on his blog. This one is strikingly relevant for me right now. He spends the first 90% of the page reminding us how lucky we all are (assuming we're Americans) to live where we do, when we do, and he's absolutely right. Good people have gone before us and made amazing things possible. But then Godin changes gears and becomes exactly what I needed to hear.

Not that the rest of his post wasn't food for thought. No, it's just that the end sounded like he was talking to me. Here's the last line of his post: "The object isn’t to be perfect. The goal isn’t to hold back until you’ve created something beyond reproach. I believe the opposite is true. Our birthright is to fail and to fail often, but to fail in search of something bigger than we can imagine. To do anything else is to waste it all." Those words, "something bigger than we can imagine," are luxurious, hopeful, stuffed with faith and eagerness. But this is the part that caught me: "to fail and to fail often."

I recently experienced a deeply significant failure. I didn't get that perfect job. No, seriously, this was the perfect job. I've never felt that way about an employment opportunity before. On most days the only thing that will satisfy my questing heart would be the ability to build my story-culture and get paid for it. But this opportunity seemed like the missing link, that rare situation that would pay my bills (pay them well) provide for all my needs, call upon all my talents, and share boundaries with my dream at the same time.

I was really disappointed.

But a day after getting the news, I'm hopeful again, and stronger, and more than ever I know what I want. Knowing what you want is something you can never learn from getting what you want. You have to fail. You have to draw near to the golden ring and then miss. If you're watching you'll come away with a memory not of the missed chance, but of what it was in that chance that drew you. Your vision of what you want for yourself will become clearer.

To fail and fail often. Yes, that's really how it is. This is not the first time I've failed in this quest I'm on. But each time I fail I find myself more capable than ever of achieving the dream. Yes, it can be maddening, but it's true. What isn't true is that "I was never meant to work there or it would have happened." It's also not true that "the right thing is still out there waiting." What is true is that the right thing now exists when it did not exist before. It exists a little more because of this failure. I hope I don't need to fail anymore, but maybe I do. I hope that if I do, I'll be able to remember that failing is as important as succeeding when you're trying to build a dream.

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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“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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C.S. Lewis portrays Jesus as the lion Aslan in the Chronicles of Narnia. 'He's wild, you know," Mr. Beaver says of him near the end of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. "Not like a tame lion."

Jesus was fierce. Two stories from the Gospel of John, taken together, portray this ferocity. The first is  the Cleansing of the Temple when Jesus snapped on the money-changers and merchants who were doing business in the house of God. The other comes right before it at the Wedding at Cana, when Jesus turned water into wine. In this  sequence of events Jesus goes from life of the party to extreme wet blanket in the space of about a hundred words. Acceptance means nothing to Jesus. He's not out to please people; he's out to show us the boundaries: have blast, but don't hurt others. At Cana, he provides the best wine, and lots of it. It's a party. In the temple, he provides a wake-up call.

That captures ferocity for me. It's the ability to maintain perspective and focus under all circumstances, and act accordingly.

"'Course he isn't safe," Mr. Beaver says. "But he's good." This can be taken two ways. First, he isn't safe to the rest of us. Second, he isn't safe from the rest of us. For a person of destiny, it's a little of both. Building a dream presents a challenge to the people around you, because deep down everybody wants to do it. For many, it causes disturbance in that deep down place. In that way, the person of destiny is not safe to the rest of us. Everyone will have their reactions, and some will not be pleasant. You mustn't even too heavily on the pleasant reactions, or you may start to identify with them. In these ways the person of destiny is not safe from the rest of us. 

A wild animal is fierce because it lives with a constant, total lack of safety. But that doesn't stop it from walking the forest. It just makes it fierce. Temper that with vision, purpose, and compassion for the very things that threaten it, and you've got Jesus. Ferocity of vision is the ability to fight that pernicious tendency of mobs large or small to bow to less demanding standards, and for certain individuals within  those mobs to champion those low standards, fueled by the approval of the mob. If you wander into a mob like that you may be ignored, shouted down, or even killed, which is what happened to Jesus. The mob he wandered into is called humanity. His ferocity is found in the fact that he knew this, and did it anyway.

It takes ferocity to build a dream.

Ever forward.

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Beginning with the obvious, Jesus was willing to die for what he loved. "No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends. (John 15:13)" That's an important part of living out my destiny—dying for it. But, hang on a minute, Jesus's destiny was the salvation of the whole human race, past, present and future. I'm just a writer. I'm just trying to make my living by doing what I love. I'm supposed to die for that?

Well, first of all, there have been times and places in human history when artists were persecuted to the point of death, simply for being artists. Secondly, dying for something and being willing to die for it are not necessarily the same thing, and third, YES. But since we live in a relatively free country where freedom of expression is protected, I find it helpful to go back to the metaphorical value of the Jesus story. There are lots of ways to die.

And they don't all involve winding up dead. In fact most of them don't. The act of creating involves lots of little deaths, little sacrifices that result in new life: a painting, a photograph, a story, a family. The death and resurrection of Jesus, even taken metaphorically, offer the ultimate illustration of this basic, natural dynamic. Getting up early is like dying for some people. But what if that's the only time I have to build my dream? Then I guess dying is what it takes. 

I have to be willing to die.

Ever forward.

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So much divides us from our talents, and therefore from our dreams. I think a big part of living well, of thriving, is gaining access to our talents. For some of us, just doing the work needed to open the door on our talents is the stuff of a lifetime. But doing that work is every bit as much an act of Destiny as pulling off a best selling book. It�??s just not as noticeable to strangers. In fact it�??s probably a greater accomplishment because of the seeming thanklessness. Hammering away in frustration at something you know you want is about as noble as it gets. Honoring that part of you even while enduring all the painful feelings it brings up, embracing like flotsam at sea the little moments of glory you feel; that's dignity. But as I get older I realize that the little moments, or even a big payoff are not why we do it. We quest for our talents because as life passes we realize, if we're lucky, that we don�??t have time to mess around with not being who we really are. Ever forward.

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