Writer's Block - Getting Back to Basics

I have a book in my head.  About one-third of it has actually been written down.  The second third has been all mapped out.  And the final one fifth is showing up only in dreamlike form.

Oh, wait. That doesn’t add up to a whole book.

Welcome to writing.

I know where the block came from.  There were good, solid, practical reasons to ignore my screensaver that said, “write every day”. I know how that went from inspirational to accusatory. I was busy doing stuff and making big life decisions.  That’s valid, right?

Right?

I’ve read all of the articles and even some academic papers on creativity and writers' block.  Good advice, all of it. So, I read some more articles and academic papers and thought maybe the next one will be the key my particular problem.

Note that reading simply led to more reading and not to actually picking up a pen.

I decided to go back to the beginning.  Well, not the very beginning where I wrote heartfelt, heartbreaking prose about boys who broke my heart but the beginning where I people watched until the stories appeared.

“People at The Bar”

They are sitting in the corner of the restaurant. It’s a big half moon booth that easily seats five, but they are only two.  A mom and her son having a mid-day meal in the middle of the week.

Perhaps they caught my eye because, while this is a friendly and welcoming place, you don’t see many kids. While the restaurant side ages a little higher than the bar side everyone is dressed in such a way that you know they don’t wonder where their next meal – or Gucci watch, is coming from.  It’s not that the food is pricey – in fact, it’s quite reasonable, but in this fairly gentrified up and coming hood that’s who shows up.

The mom in the booth is well kept. Her hair is freshly highlighted, and her nails have been done by a professional.  She has a wide, welcoming face made even more beautiful by her big, engaging smile. Her eyes light up and her dimples appear, and everyone can see that the source of her delight is her partner for this mid-day rendezvous. For them, no one else is here.

He is about five. He reminds me of my step-son at that age.  Dirty blond hair and deep brown eyes. He looks a little disheveled as only little boys can. He is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and has that just-come-in-from-playing-outside look about him.  He engages his mother in a story using his hands and arms in big swinging motions so that she’s sure not to miss the important points.

And she delights in him. She doesn’t miss a thing. Her eyes dance and twinkle as she reacts dramatically to whatever story he is telling. Maybe it’s about something that happened at school this morning.  Maybe it’s about the monster that lives under his bed.  Maybe it’s about his latest feat on the soccer field.

It doesn’t matter, really.  It doesn’t matter what he’s saying.

She delights.

I’m watching from the other side – the bar side. On this side, there is more of a mix of characters. I’m sitting at the bar – not something I often do, but the staff is great and don’t make me feel weird for being here alone. There are professionals checking their phones and answering emails. There are agents presenting real estate deals. There the quasi-locally-famous finance guy who holds court at the other end of the bar.  There are a few old-timers who seem not to have noticed that this is no longer the hole-in-the-wall dingy bar that it used to be. They hold up the bar wearing old tatted sweaters and yelling random things at whatever sport that happens to be on the screen. There are well-dressed men preening and deciding if they should keep their wedding rings on and well-dressed women in their 30’s and 40’s deciding whether or not they care.

On another day, or on another evening, the mom I see would fit in well with the bar-side crowd. But not today. Today she sits with no cell phone, no computer of any kind, not even so much as a pad of paper to distract her.

Today, she sits fully in the presence of her young son. Today she is reassuring him that what he is saying is important and deserves her undivided attention.

And at the bar side, we all desperately hope to find someone that will be so interested in us. Preferably one with no indentation on the ring finger on the left hand. 

You are more than your title

People tend to have very particular ideas about who priests are and what we do. While I suppose this is true of many professions it seems that the term priest- or minister for that matter- conjures up very specific – and limited, images.

Perhaps there was a time when priests went to have tea with dear Mrs. Mcgillicutty and stopped in at the children’s home on their way to the rectory for lunch. I envision a man (always a man) in a starched white collar sitting in an empty church, bible open to the psalms, contemplating the dour judgement of God, half expecting to be interrupted by a passer-by in spiritual crisis. Once a month he would attend an evening meeting with the elders of the church and listen to their reports about how many people took home communion, how many wafers had been used, who had agreed to cut the grass and how much money had been received. He would then retire to the rectory next door and pray for the well being of the parish.

Perhaps this describes days gone by. Or may be not. But if it ever was like that let me assure you things have changed.

The time for a drop in tea has been replaced with creating a marketing campaign on social media for upcoming events. Dropping in at the children’s home is now the time for arguing with the church school ladies about moving from simple crafts towards actually having the children in a church service once a month. Silent bible study has been replaced by committee meetings deemed necessary by the bishop and those in spiritual crisis? Well. They have to make an appointment.

I don’t know when the shift happened. Perhaps it isn’t as stark as it is in my imagination. But it is true that the expectations put on priests are much more professional and require a lot more expertise than in days gone by. And yet folks still envision a fire and brimstone preacher in the pulpit but a jovial, agreeable soul in a starched white collar on the weekdays who is always available for a little prayer time.


In days gone by I would rail against the stereotypes. On occasion, when out with friends, I would choose one aspect of my job as a way of introducing myself. One aspect was as true as any other and I could unapologetically say that’s what I did for a living.

For instance.
Counselor
Volunteer coordinator
Motivational speaker
Head of finance
Property manager
Group facilitator
Teacher
Executive director of a non profit
Writer
Human resource professional
Trauma response worker
Death and dying doula
Grounds keeper
Event promoter
Fundraiser
Social media expert

My favourite was “property manager". Toilet plunging on a Sunday morning after the Girl Guide troupe had an activity that apparently involved stuffing the toilets with paper towels was clearly covered in my contract under “and other duties as assigned.” When I introduced myself as any one of these things I could breathe a little easier and not feel so defensive about who I am and I enjoyed my little façade. I could speak confidently about any one of these roles because I was all of them.

It took me a long time to stop thinking of myself as “just a priest". Even I had an image of days in prayer contemplating Jesus when in reality that was about 5% of my job. I got caught up in the specificity of my university degree without considering that it is, in fact, a Masters level degree from one of the top universities in the world and that it has intrinsic value all on it’s own.

In the months leading up to my resignation I began to pluck out my actual duties – those that have value outside of the walls of the church – and list them. What followed was a resume that is skills based and not simply a chronology of my work experience. It allowed me to highlight not just my professional experience since earning my degree but also what I learned from having my own successful business in the 90’s as a Case Manager for individuals with ABI.

I am a priest. Even though I am no longer employed in a church it is who I am at my very core. However, I needed to move away from seeing myself in the very limited way that others do and expand those images to include all of those other aspects of who I am and what I’ve learned. Much of what I learned was out of necessity and was like drinking from a fire hose as I gobbled up everything I could about something new and found a way to get it done.

I have had two responses from executive search firms commenting on my “intriguing and unique qualifications" for the positions to which I’ve applied.

I am grateful for the friends and professionals who helped me to see myself more fully. I hope that if you are reading this you might take some time to do the same. And for my friends and colleagues still ministering in congregations know that I have to utmost respect for you. Perhaps if I had been able to see myself as more than “just a parish priest" when I was working I might have been able to settle in to my role more comfortably. You are more than your title. Own that.

Post-Responsibility

“Responsible” – the state of being responsible, answerable or accountable for something within one’s power, control or management.

At almost 50 I now understand why adults always tell teenagers not to be in such a hurry to grow up.  What the grownups don’t mention is that once you’re out on your own you become responsible for a 

lot.

For getting a job.

For keeping a job.

For finding a place to live.

For paying all the bills.

For feeding yourself.

For a pet.

For your aging parents.

For your dependent children.

For your own decisions.

For your relationships.

For…yourself.

It is only now when my only responsibilities are paying my cell bill, my car insurance and taking care of my dog that I truly understand how all that responsibility stuff really limits your horizons.

For a time.

Some responsibilities are gifts. Caring for my clients, parishioners, communities and peers in their time of need has been selfishly fulfilling. Creating loving relationships with my friends has been my salvation.  Loving my mother through her old age until her death, though arduous at times, was an honour.  And of course, being responsible for the two little humans that come from my very own body has been the greatest joy of my life.  When their father chose to leave the country following the separation I used to joke that I didn’t know that walking away from them and buying a trailer in Florida was an option. It was a joke because, of course, it was never really an option for me.

Because I was responsible.

Other responsibilities are a burden. Trying to please hundreds of people, each with their own unique idea of what priest should be was a game I could no longer play.

“Your stole was crooked.”

“One should always wear nylons, my dear.”

“Perhaps a shawl to cover your arms?”

“Your sandals are distracting.”

“Ministers drink tea, not beer.”

Augh.  I just couldn’t play anymore.

I am still tied to this place, this community and to my people – but I am not responsible for them in a way that I once was.  I handed over the keys to my house and the weight of the mortgage went along with it.  I put my notice in to my employer.  I resigned from my board positions and most of all I launched my boys out into the world – successfully, I think.

For the first time ever, I can decide what I want my life to look like without material ties and responsibilities.  If you asked me 5 years ago if there was anything I regretted I would have said that I wished that I had traveled more before I settled down with two kids.  And if you had asked me what I always wanted to do I would have said that I wanted to go on an emergency mission.  As I saw the workers respond in Haiti, or those who receive the refugees as they arrive from their war-torn countries I did so with a sense of envy – I wanted to be with them.  I wanted to help them build or rebuild a community and to offer comfort as much as my English-only self was able.

I’m at my best when I am responding to people in need.  As evidenced by my response to the flood of 2013, the devastating fires in Fort McMurray (where I desperately tried to find a flight to take me there), or just as I journeyed with people through difficult deaths or never missed a midnight emergency call to the hospital; I thrive in the midst of chaos. I bring calm and reassurance when others are at their worst.

There is nothing keeping me here at the moment.  Well, Sarah the dog but I have a generous offer of care for her.  I have always wanted to go abroad and there are places in the world that would benefit from all I have to offer.

Here I go….

Battling the Black Dog with my Mom

              It is a club.  The membership is exclusive and yet there are many of us.  The criteria to join is involuntarily met and the cost is very high.  It is a club that none of us want to be a part of but once the dark shadows block out the possibility of sunlight we have been fully pledged.

              Our best hope is that we don’t visit this club very often.  In fact, we spend our time trying to avoid entering at all and once we’re in we simply seek the most expedient exit.

              If only it were so simple.

              The Black Dog of depression has veiled my soul in darkness three times in my life.  Once in my late teens, when I had a great job and my first apartment.  I covered the windows and laid in my bed day after day unable to function.  I had pushed through and pushed through and then my body and my mind simply took me out of commission.

              I called no one.  I spoke to no one.  I had nothing to say and there was no help that they could give me, well intentioned as they were.  So, I retreated.

              My mom didn’t allow me to live on my solitary island alone.  She made her way into my cocoon and refused to listen to my protests.  She just kept showing up.

              We didn’t speak.  There was nothing to say.  She would tidy the kitchen, play with the cat and then sit in my living room and crochet in silence.  I resented her presence at first.  I would lay in my room angry at her for simply being.  I dreaded to hear her key in my lock.  But it didn’t take long before I anticipated the sound; looked forward to it, even.  Sometimes she would run a tub for me.  But mostly she demanded nothing from me and I asked nothing of her in return. 

              Eventually I left the dark, seductive isolation of my bed and would lay on the couch with my head in her lap.  I listened to the sound of the wool being released from its tightly bound ball and it being fed through her skinny fingers as she used the hook to knot stitch after stitch.

              I still have that afghan.  And I have made quite a few of my own trying to emulate her quiet presence as friends and family members heal from whatever ails them.

              I don’t remember how long my depression-imposed isolation lasted – probably not for as long as my memory insists it did.  But it ended, and I rejoined the world, ready to take it on.  Without my mom I still may be in that bed in that apartment on Queenston Road in Stoney Creek.

              The second visit from the Black Dog arrived a few years after moving to Calgary.  It was circumstantial but was no less insistent on bringing me down.  It was just as debilitating as the first time.

              My mom had moved out here long before it started, and she lived with us.  She knew me well and had battled the darkness before.  This time it was kitting.  Click. Click. Click.

              She was simply present.

              And again, she was the life preserver that prevented me from falling deeper and deeper into darkness.

              This last fight with the darkness has been harder without her quiet presence.  I didn’t realize how much having her heart beat in a rhythm so close to mine helped to put me back in sync with the world.  I didn’t realize that her very presence strengthened my own life force enough to climb out of the depths.

              I have the most amazing friends who checked in on me and ensured that I didn’t disappear completely.  My boys are amazing and I’m grateful for the heartbeats, for the presence and for their life force every day.

              But I missed my mother’s quiet company, her quiet insistence that the fog wouldn’t overtake me completely.  I made it out but the journey was harder…and longer, because of her absence.

  

Bumper Cars

Do you remember riding on the bumper cars?

Did you choose the one sitting off by itself so you could get an easy start or one in the middle of a piled up mess that would require some maneuvering?

Either way, at the beginning, as the ride came to life everyone would plot their path.

Some went straight for the easy hit bumping up alongside the car next to them.

Some tried carefully to not be hit at all perhaps by staying towards the middle or the outside edge.

Still others sat still in fear hoping they’d be safe and were completely shocked when they were slammed from behind forcing their car into the one in front.

And of course, there were those who took careful aim, stepped heavily on the pedal and slammed into a chosen person also on the ride.

I think we are like bumper cars.

I think that we all use different strategies at different times in our lives – sometimes trying to keep ourselves safe and avoiding contact at all, sometimes sitting still in fear and sometimes taking careful aim at someone who has wronged us.

And sometimes we innocently bump up against each other not causing much harm or damage.

And sometimes we are hit so hard by someone that we can’t help ramming up against another – perhaps innocent – person.

The thing about the bumper car ride is that it doesn’t need to harm or hurt – after all, the cars could simply drive at pace with one another all driving in the same direction.

But it does hurt.

Sometimes with words. Sometimes with our presence. Sometimes by our absence.

It does harm.

On occasion bumping up against each can bring us joy – the joy of surprise and of fun, but just as often we are caught guard and find our body preparing for yet another impact.

So we protect ourselves either by hiding out, by trying to cause only a little harm so that others may have the same consideration, or by taking careful aim and hurting others before they hurt us.

Maybe we should all get out of our cars and go back to navigating the world with only our bodies for protection – with only bodies to come in contact with others.

Maybe then we would stop ramming, harming, hurting, ignoring, aiming and start connecting, talking, touching, healing and enjoying this one life we have to live.

Five Pairs of Shoes

They came from me.

From their first moment of existence, they were not just in my body but in my heart.

I was the first to feel them move – butterfly kisses as they rolled around in my belly.

They were real to me while they were just an idea of a possibility to everyone else.

Eventually, I had to share them with the world and the reality of them became more concrete.

I wiped every tear, cooed to them as they nursed and kissed every boo-boo (except their stinky feet)

They were my world

As they grew into themselves they also grew into the world – I no longer knew every experience they had

Whenever they were away from me it was as it part of my heart was out there being exposed to things I couldn’t know

And now they are grown almost ready to leave me and our home.

But even as they work to leave me – as they should – I still know their hearts as they know mine

A mother knows when her children are sad, stressed, overwhelmed, happy or mad

How do we know?

Because they are our heart.

In my front hall, blocking clear entry into my house, sit five pairs of shoes.

I know them well and even cursed their very presence and yet….

If the blue ones are gone I know son#1 is out with friends may be having a drink.

If the light gray ones are missing it means son#2 has walked to work or to the corner store.

If the dark gray ones are gone son#1 is at work.

If the red ones are gone then son#2 is with friends or may be on a date.

If the black and orange ones are missing then son#1 is just hanging with friends playing soccer or some other sport.

Five pairs of shoes block free entry to my home.

And it’s OK.

Because one day they will be gone altogether along with my sons – as it should be.

But for now, it’s OK.

When they leave I won’t know if they are working, playing or out on a date

I will know them more deeply than that information can convey

Because I will always know their hearts.

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