Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage - El Cerro Tome, New Mexico

It's been a while.  Too long.  Here's the thing -- what I've said so far are the things I've already worked through for myself.  I've had the time to get to know them, to become intimate with the truth at their core.  I know this stuff, and although the way I've laid it out on the page may have been a bit of a surprise for me, the essential truth of it was there already, waiting to be shared.  Although I've been excessively wordy (as always), I believe I've been fairly successful in sharing my thoughts with you.

Problem is, I've led us all to my own personal borderlands, the edge of my known territory.  From this point forward, I am less qualified to be your guide, as I have yet to really explore these new lands.  Don't get me wrong, I've made some brief forays over the border.  I've even encountered some of the beasts that dwell there, poking at them with sticks before running pell-mell back to my so-called safe places.  I've looked out into the wilderness from my safe vantage point, seen that there are people that dwell and even thrive there.  But know it?  I'd be lying if I said I did.

For weeks now, I've been trying to finish writing a post titled "Just Do It."  I need to finish it, because there is truth in what I've been attempting to share.  For good, bad, or otherwise, my highly sensitive BS detector keeps going off.  Even knowing the truth of what I need to share, my aversion to hypocrisy won't allow me to move forward.  If I am going to lead us on this journey, if I am going to have an impact, I must lead by example.  Turns out that I can't bring myself to tell you "Just do it" while sitting here on my backside, too afraid to cross the border into action.

So do I surrender?  Admit to all of you (and I know that there are at least three people reading this) that I am unqualified and unwilling to move forward?  No.  I cannot, will not give up.  I saw a meme on Facebook recently, and the essential truth of it has been echoing in the recesses of my brain ever since.  To paraphrase the quote:  "If you want something you have never had, you must be willing to do something you have never done."  I can't speak for anyone else, but I desperately want something I've never had.  I want to feel like I'm living the life I was meant to live, to know that I am doing what I was made to do.  I am sick to death of living a life of quiet desperation.  Clearly, I need to do something I've never done before.  I need to actually DO what my heart tells me to do, rather than just think on it.  I need to LIVE the life I yearn for.

Sound familiar?  I suspect it does.  To be honest, I don't think any of you would still be following this if it didn't.  So... what do we do?  How do we cross that borderland, the demilitarized zone between our current lives and the lives of fulfillment that we dream of?  I won't lie to you.  I don't know, not with certainty.  All I can do is share what I have been doing over the past several weeks.

My dream dwells in a story.  There are characters in my head who are begging me to breathe life into them, to allow them to exist beyond the boundaries of my imagination.  There is an entire town waiting on me, depending on me to make it real.  My protagonists first came to me somewhere between fifteen and twenty years ago, before I ever left New Mexico.  Their story has not been static, but has grown and changed and evolved, much as I have.   When I first met them, they longed to leave New Mexico.  After I left, I was surprised to discover that they became people that needed to come to New Mexico and be transformed by the magic of this place.  (Funny how that works.)  As I yearned for home, they did too, although they didn't know it was home. 

(Arrgghh!  The Dark Side, the Internal Editor, is screaming that this is NOT what I wanted to write today!  For now, I will ignore him and I will complete this.  I may edit it before posting, but I will complete this!)

By the way, these imaginary people have names:  Mitch Carter and Corrie Ann Matthews.  If they insist on being real for me, I might as well be courteous enough to introduce you. 

Much like me, Mitch and Corrie are lost, struggling to find their true selves.  Unlike me, they have the courage to quit clinging to the known, to cast themselves loose and see where the wind takes them, trusting that they will end up where they need to be.  Their reality has its roots in my fears, my insecurities, my hopes.  Their transformation requires a change in location, a removal from the "safe" and familiar, a planting in alien but fertile soil, a nurturing by a caring creator.  I often find myself insanely jealous of them.

I keep wandering off on rabbit trails here, and I apologize for that.  Let me try and drag this back to the topic at hand.  Over the past several years, I came to recognize that Mitch and Corrie's story needed New Mexico to come alive.  They were as desperate for this place as I was.  On my visits here, I tried to breath in enough of the essence of the place to carry me through, to allow me to make Mitch and Corrie real.  It wasn't enough.  I needed to return to my homeland if they were to live.  I stepped WAY outside my comfort zone, and returned.  (While I'd love to take credit for doing so, it was my wife's courage, and not my own, that brought us back here.)  The cost has been high, and I still don't know the full measure of it.  But I was here, the Sandias dominating the view from the back of my home... and it still wasn't enough.

You see, their story depends on so much more.  It is based on things I have seen, that I have been aware of, metaphorical scents I have caught on the breeze.  For me, however, I've realized that still isn't enough to make them Real.  There is a tried and true adage for writers:  Write what you know.  I've been trying to succeed by writing what I know of, and that's not the same thing, not at all.  To make their world and their journey real, I have to make it real for myself, and I am unable to do that from the viewpoint of the objective external observer.  Unlocking their reality requires immersion.

Huh?  Please bear with me here.  All I'm saying is that my creative process requires me to actually experience more of what they experience.  (This may be why I have sworn to write stories that are ultimately uplifting, rather than exploring the dark and hopeless.  I think it would be a Very Bad thing if I were to delve into the world of Breaking Bad.)  Mitch and Corrie begin their transformation by first finding each other, (something I DO know about) and then ending up in a fictional New Mexico town.  In my mind, the town bears elements of our time in Bernalillo, as well as the communities of Tomé and Chimayó.  I've found inspiration in the music of the Southwest, and in the Good Friday pilgrimages to the Santuario de Chimayó and El Cerro Tomé.  Many of the essential elements were there for me, but try as I might I couldn't make it real.

A month and a half ago, that started to change.  Following a crazy impulse, I took the Rail Runner up to Santa Fe to take part in an open casting call for some upcoming film projects.  North of Bernalillo, the train diverges from the interstate, staying closer to the Rio Grande, passing through the San Felipe and Santo Domingo pueblos.  It was just a few short miles west of a route that I'd traveled many times before, and yet... it was a world I'd never seen before, and in that world I discovered where my little town belongs.  As the train rolled north of San Felipe Pueblo, the black mesas that had been hugging the west bank of the Rio Grande receded to the west, opening a magnificent view of the Jemez mountains in the distance, the valley before me painted in light and shadow by the broken, fast-moving clouds.  Suddenly, I could see the little town in its entirety, the single paved road, the church with its fallen south wall, the tired adobe houses, the alfalfa fields with their sweet green scent, the acequias glowing with silver light, the steep hill that shelters the eastern side of the town -- all of it.  In the space of a few moments, my little town became Real.

In those same moments, I first began to understand the value of pilgrimage, of taking steps into places where I'd never been and letting the reality of the experience wash over me.

A few months earlier, I'd experienced a similar moment when on Canyon Road in Santa Fe.  At the very least, it had been years since I'd been there.  In honesty, I don't know if I'd every actually been there before -- it might only have been a place I'd heard about.  In any case, Canyon Road is a wonderful, twisting road lined with galleries and small cafes.  I was just standing there, waiting for the rest of the family to emerge from a gallery while my granddaughter tugged on my arm, and I looked across the road and thought "that's where Mitch sells his art."  It was just an instant, but suddenly something that had been ill-formed in my mind became real.

Up to this point, these moments were pure serendipity, happy accidents.  Although I'd experienced them many times before, especially with locations for my stories, and I'd even sought them out, it had never occurred to me to expand this to include experiences.  (Okay, I'll be honest.  It had occurred to me, but I'd never actually done anything about it.)  Somehow, though, that moment of revelation on the train started an echo running through my thoughts.  "If I want something I've never had, I need to be willing to do things I've never done."

I'd never (or almost never) impulsively done something like that trip to Santa Fe for the casting call.  I'd never gone anywhere by commuter train before, never been through that particular part of the Rio Grande valley before.  Somehow, defying all those "nevers" and doing something new made something become real and alive in my imagination.  I am not a person that steps into the unknown easily.  I can count the times I have taken real chances, risked everything of my own volition, on my two hands, and I'm ashamed to say that there would be fingers left over when I was done.  But... there was that crazy time at the University when I finally walked over and introduced myself to that beautiful girl that I'd been watching for six months, even though I KNEW she was way out of my league... but wait, I MARRIED that girl!  And it turned out GOOD!  I'm still crazy about her!  OMG!  Could it be?  The thought was mind-boggling.

What if I quit hoping for serendipity, and started pursuing these moments on purpose?

In my story, a traditional New Mexico pilgrimage plays a vital role in the development of the plot and in the evolution of my characters.  I was inspired in part by the news stories of the annual pilgrimage to the Santuario de Chimayó, and to a greater degree by the stories of the lesser-known pilgrimage to the top of Tomé Hill, southeast of Los Lunas.  I've been to both of these places.  I've knelt and prayed in the Santuario, taken home a film canister full of the sacred dirt from the back of the chapel.  I've climbed to the summit of Tomé Hill several times to stand in the shadow of the three crosses.  Yes, I'd done these things, but never as part of the pilgrimage.  I'd always seen these as Hispanic and Catholic, and I am Anglo and Protestant.  (Want to feel like an outsider in your homeland?  Try growing up Anglo and Protestant in Albuquerque.)  I never felt like I had the right to take part in the pilgrimage.

And yet... it mattered to Mitch, and Corrie, and they were just as Anglo and Protestant as me.  In my story, they take part in the experience, and it transforms them.  I've tried in the past, but I've never been able to write about it in a way that felt genuine.  At its heart, I believe it was because I was trying to write about what I knew of, rather than writing what I knew.  As I considered this in the days leading up to Good Friday, I was faced with a harsh truth:  the pilgrimage was not the exclusive domain of Hispanics and Catholics.  It is an external reflection of an internal journey, an act of seeking a closer relationship with God.  My reasons for not taking part in the pilgrimage were nothing more than excuses.

I made plans to walk up the hill with my wife and youngest son.  For a variety of reasons, they elected not to join me.  On Good Friday morning, my head was spinning with all the reasons I shouldn't go.  I couldn't really afford the gas, I should stay home and finish the taxes, I'm in lousy shape, it wasn't cool to leave the family and do something so selfish and foolish, the list went on and on.  I came perilously close to abandoning my plans.

But then I heard a voice, clear and quiet and absolute in my head.  All it did was whisper a simple question, but it demanded an answer.  "Will you regret it if you don't go?"

I worked in a funeral home for nearly five years, spent lots of time with the grieving and the dead and the dying, saw my best friend die way too young.  I'm still trying to absorb the lessons I learned there, but there was one lesson that I have taken to heart.  At the end of a life, it is very rare to regret the things that we have done, and all too common to regret the things we haven't done.  As soon as I heard the soft-spoken question in my head, I knew I would regret it if I didn't go.  For a day or a week or a month, most certainly; for a lifetime, quite possibly.

Just to be different, I defied my tendency to be a martyr, and I went on the journey alone.

Before I go any further, let me take a moment to be honest.  It mid-morning on Good Friday when I left the house.  By that time, there were pilgrims walking the roads to Chimayó and Tomé that had been on the road for a week or more.  On that day, I let my silver Mustang carry me to a point within three miles of Tomé Hill.  (To my credit, I did pass by several opportunities to park within a half mile of the hill.  I recognized the limitations of my middle-aged, out-of-shape package, but I wanted to walk far enough to have some time for contemplation and prayer.)

On the way to the hill, I passed a roadside vendor on the outskirts of Isleta Pueblo.  On impulse, I turned around and bought her last loaf of horno-baked Indian bread, with the intent of taking communion at the summit of the hill.  Had I been thinking ahead, I would have brought a small amount of red wine as well.

I parked at a Catholic church several miles south of the hill, setting out with my walking stick in hand and two bottles of water in my hip pack.  For the first mile or so, I walked alone.  As I write this nine days later, I recall thinking how perfectly blue the sky was, with just the right number of fluffy white clouds.  I remember thinking that the breeze was just right on my skin, cooling without being cold, and breathing deep to savor the aromatic blend of freshly-turned soil and sage and cattle.  Gradually, I found myself surrounded by other pilgrims, some alone, but most walking with companions.  By the time I turned east onto Tomé Hill Road, there was a steady flow of walkers, both moving towards the hill and returning from the summit.  I occasionally found myself briefly aware that my Anglo skin stood out in contrast to the deep brown and olive tones of my fellow pilgrims, and that I heard the lyrical tones of Spanish in the bits of conversation that drifted my way more often than I heard English.  To my delight, I realized it didn't matter.  No one looked at me as if I didn't belong, or asked me why I wore an empty silver cross rather than a crucifix.  We were on the journey together, we all belonged.

I'd taken a small camera, and paused now and then along the way to capture what I saw.  In the bright sunlight, I had to frame my images by the contrast of light and shadow on the screen.  (I really miss viewfinders.)  I didn't know if I was capturing good images or not, and I found that I didn't care.  What mattered was that I was taking pictures again, feeding part of my creative nature.  I was doing, rather than thinking.

I don't know if any of you have ever been to Tomé Hill, much less walked up to the top.  There are several trails that lead to the summit.  On this day, I chose the longest and gentlest approach.  I think it was because I wanted to prolong the experience as long as possible.  Even on this gentlest of paths, the first part of the climb is steep and rocky, and I had to pause several times.  I was glad that I'd had the foresight to bring my hiking stick, as it kept me from stumbling several times.  I wasn't alone -- people half my age were working just as hard to climb the slope.  I gave some bread to a young man who'd pushed too hard, shared some water with another.  I smiled as I looked on all the people wearing shorts and sleeveless shirts, in such contrast to my wide-brimmed hat and lightweight long-sleeved shirt.  It must be wonderful to have skin that was custom-made for the New Mexico sun.  Finally I crested the first part of the climb, and the crosses at the summit came into view.

Those of you who know me well know that I am unusually emotional for a man.  I cry when watching chick flicks (which I watch voluntarily), I am moved by a sunset or the sight of a flock of geese flying free over my head.  I had walked up this particular trail a half-dozen times or so over the years, and the first sight of the crosses always moves me.  At least, I'd always thought it had.

There's a song by Julianne Hough, "Hallelujah Song", with a line that I love.  "Life isn't measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away."  For the rest of my life, that moment will stand as one of the moments that took my breath away.    For the first time, I saw the winding path to the crosses filled with people, the rocky crest all but invisible under all those who were gathered there.  I moved off the trail for a few minutes to just take it in, to savor the feelings that washed over me and through me.  I took a few photos, sipped some water, smiled like a simpleton when a hulking man in a goatee and Harley-Davidson t-shirt put his hand on my shoulder as he passed and said "Bless you, brother."  This was a man I would have feared when I was younger, just because he was large and Hispanic and different from me... and he saw me as a brother.  Perhaps that was the magic in that moment for me.  There were hundreds of us, maybe even thousands there on that hill, with an equal number of reasons for being on the journey, but the differences were unimportant.  What mattered was that we were on the journey.

I'm not sure what I expected at the top.  I think I'd hoped for something more... spiritual.  More holy, perhaps.  It was different than I'd expected, but then such things usually are.  There were people on their knees, yes, people fingering the beads on their rosaries as they prayed, people with tears streaming down their faces, but there were far more that were just talking with friends, laughing and poking each other and waving, or just standing quietly and taking in the views of the valley and mountains.  I found a vacant spot on the rocks between the crosses, tore off a piece of the Indian bread from my hip pack, contemplated communion as I ate the bread, substituting a sip of water for wine.  I would love to tell you that I was overwhelmed by a sense of God's presence, that it was mystical and spiritual, but I'd be lying.  Despite that, or perhaps because of it, I was deeply aware of the fact that in that moment, there was nowhere I'd rather be.

I may be lost, confused, unfocused and wandering, but I know enough to recognize and treasure moments like that.  It was one of those "perfect moments in time" that I wrote about a few weeks ago. 

There are images from that time that I hope I carry with me for the rest of my life.  The sight of an elderly woman, supported on one side by a middle-aged woman and by her cane on the other, crossing herself at the foot of the largest cross.  A young woman kissing her fingers and laying them on the photo of a dead soldier that had been left on the stone altar, tears streaming down her face as she looked on the image of someone she had lost.  Watching three young men approaching the summit, each of them carrying a handmade wooden cross.  They paused just below the top of the hill, then one by one came up and laid their crosses at the foot of the big cross.  (I don't know if they left them there or not.)  Watching as scary, heavily-tattooed men paused to help an elderly man up over a large stone in the path.

After a time, I moved to the north edge of the hill, perching on a rock overlooking the valley.  One of the farmers at the base of the hill was irrigating his field, and I watched as the silver water flowed over the last bit of dry soil.  There were others there, solitary like myself, taking in the beauty of the valley, letting the breeze and the murmur of conversation wash over us.  I was filled with a sense of wonder that I was there, in that place, in that moment, participating rather than just contemplating. 

Eventually, I knew it was time for me to move on.  As moving as the presence of all these people had been, I was ready for solitude and new discovery, so I started down the steep, narrow, little-used trail on the north face of the hill.  Because I was alone, I felt free to take a path I'd never been on before.  I found myself on the road that runs alongside the irrigation ditch that flows along the base of the hill, and walked at a leisurely pace back to the west.  When I got back to Tomé Hill Road, I realized that I still wasn't in a hurry to get back to the car, so I continued on along the empty road that circled the hill to the south, finally reaching the parking lot at the base of the steep south trail.  There, I was very glad to find a family handing out bottles of water from a cooler.  (I'd given my spare bottle to a couple that was climbing the north trail.)  I wandered south along La Entrada Road, then turned west on Entrada Aragon, actually walking along roads I'd thought about walking on for twenty years or more.

About halfway down Entrada Aragon, I started to become very aware of my aching knees and ankles, and I was glad of it.  Perhaps I am just twisted, but I don't think the day would have mattered as much if I hadn't ached when it was done.  I will confess that I was happy to reach the comfort of my little Mustang, with her soft leather bucket seats.

Okay, so I've shared this with you, but what's the point?  Here's where my words may prove to be inadequate, and I apologize in advance if that's the case.  I'm not yet sure how deep the impact will be, but I know that this day was vital.  I've tried for the past five minutes or so to find the words to complete that thought, but I don't own them.  More than that, I'd be lying if I were to tell you that I really understand it.  I don't.  What I do understand is that my pilgrimage on that day represented a fundamental shift in my approach to my creativity.  I was no longer content to just know about something that mattered to me -- I chose instead to actually know it, if only in a small way.  In making this choice, I discovered more of Mitch, breathing life into him, understanding him a little more, bringing him that much closer to coming to life on the page.  It still falls short of actually writing the book, but it is a step in the right direction. 

So am I saying that to be creative, you have to go on a pilgrimage?  No, and yes.  Or maybe it's the other way around.  Either way, the movement towards the creative core of yourself is a journey.  Sometimes, I think that taking a literal journey can help us in our figurative one.  If we allow it to do so, a journey can transform us, and that is what this blog is all about. 

As usual, I'm having difficulty with the conclusion.  I don't do endings well, in life or on the page.  I've spoken before about the importance of doing those things that your heart yearns for, but that your mind tries to reason away.  My Good Friday pilgrimage was one of those things.  I can see the value of taking a real pilgrimage someday, one that covers hundreds of miles, taking weeks or even months to complete.  Fortunately, a pilgrimage doesn't have to be so dramatic to have a profound impact on our creative souls.  I may be dead wrong about this, but I don't think that the length or hardship of the journey is nearly so important as the act of taking the journey.

For the sake of our discussion, I'd like to suggest that for each of us, a pilgrimage of sorts is vital.  It doesn't have to be a literal, physical journey like mine was, but I think the likelihood of it being beneficial is magnified significantly if we actually get up off our tails and DO something.  As far as defining what actually constitutes a pilgrimage, I am far less certain.  For the moment, I'd say that it has to be something that your heart yearns for, but your logical mind resists.  (I'm becoming increasingly convinced that if your logical mind is resistant to an idea, it is probably exactly what your creative spirit needs.)  I'd be inclined to say that you need to be especially attentive to the yearnings that feel selfish.  Combat this by inviting those closest to you to join you on the journey, but you must be willing to go alone.  I can't tell you what form your personal pilgrimage will take, as it will be as individual as you are.

Finally, a warning.  Remember early in the life of this blog, when I wrote about the importance of focusing on those things that are positive and good and beautiful?  This is vitally important here.  When embarking on a journey, your focus often determines your path, and the impact the journey will have on your spirit.  If your focus is negative, you are far more likely to take a journey that will lead you into the darker parts of yourself.  That is not my intent, nor do I believe it is the intent of our Creator.

More soon.

The Underlying Themes

My apologies to all of you who have been awaiting my next post.  While there is not a set schedule for these, I try not to keep you waiting too long, lest you lose interest.

As an author, it is usually a good thing to receive confirmation that what you have written is true.  Usually.  For good or bad, it appears that my last post contained a great deal of truth, at least on a personal level.  Apparently, the "opposition" didn't care much for what I had to say, and my convictions were put to the test in a rather spectacular and scary fashion.  Details are unnecessary, but I will say that the eleven days between my last post and this morning have been some of the scariest and disheartening I have experienced in recent years, possibly even some of the worst ever.  Hope was lost, my spirit was crushed, fear overwhelmed me and those closest to me.

By God, we must be doing something right!  And by the way, we made the choice to trust, and God provided.  It works that way.  Not always the way I'd like it to, but always the way it needs to.

So...  how do we find "IT:"  That magical, wonderful thing we are created for?  The thing  (or things) we are made to do?  Darn good question, and one I am tragically unqualified to answer.  I have some ideas, though, some radical thoughts to share with you.  Thoughts on how to find "IT," thoughts on what "creativity" actually means, thoughts on cutting our own path through the briar patch.  I make no guarantees, and there is no warranty implied, but... 

What I share with you today are the things that kept floating to the surface over the past ten days.  These are the things that continually came to me in direct contradiction to our circumstances, that had the sweet aroma of Truth that somehow managed to slip through the stink of our fear.  They're nuggets, really, just tiny bits that managed to shine in the darkness.  You know what, though?  It was the darkness that made them stand out, just like the subject in the low-key photographs we discussed a few posts ago.  So, in defiance of the darkness, I am going to do my best to breath life into these tiny embers and share their warmth with you.  Take that, Darkness!

(Heh, heh.  It felt good to say that!)

First, it came to me that our definition of "creativity" tends to be terribly restrictive, and it needn't be.  I tend to think that most of you who have been drawn to these pages are creative in the traditional sense -- you are artists and musicians, writers and photographers and dancers and thespians and singers.  You know, the outcasts, the oddballs, the eccentrics.  We are used to thinking of ourselves as having something inside us that makes us different.  Here's the thing, though.  I believe that we ALL have been individually crafted by our creator.  Each of us is a unique and wonderful work of art, designed with specific purpose and bearing a reflection of our creator within us. 

So what  does that mean?  To start with, it means that when those of us who are "traditional creatives" look down our noses at differently-gifted people, we are guilty of being creativity snobs.  We are being just as hateful as those people who made us feel different and weird.  I think that we need to lay those preconceptions aside if we are going to be successful in this journey.  For the sake of discussion, let me toss this out to you:  There is no "Normal."  No ordinary.  No one who isn't gifted with creativity of some kind, because we all carry a reflection of our creator within us.  What does this mean?  In essence, it means that we have to expand our definition of "creative."  When I talk about unlocking and exploring our creativity, I am talking about discovering those natural abilities and gifts that are hard-wired into each of us.  Whether that means penning a novel or discovering that you have a gift for organization is irrelevant.  What is relevant is that you go on the journey.  I believe creativity is being obedient to your calling, no matter if it is as a sculptor or accountant or mother or mathematician.

Second, I think we need to lay aside the preconception that we have to tie our creativity to how we make a living.  I'll confess, it pains me to say this.  I want to make a living with my creative gifts!  But here's the trap I've fallen into repeatedly over the past thirty years or so:  Every time I start to explore my own creativity, I ask myself how I can make a living with it.  I find myself unable to answer the question, and so I get discouraged and turn away from the exploration.  I think, "I can't do this while I'm in this job," or, "I'm too worried about making rent to write right now," or some other nonsense.  As a result, I think myself right out of doing what I want to do.  If you are wondering, the answer is yes, that's just stupid.

There is a vast difference between "making a living" and "living."  Making a living is the process of earning the funds we need to cover our basic needs.  In the world we live in, it's becoming increasingly difficult, and as a result, it tends to dominate our thoughts.  These are scary times.  Nothing is secure, nothing is certain, nothing is safe.  Ick.  Fear takes hold of us, chokes the breath from our lungs, steals our hope.  Trust me, I know. 

Here's what else I know, though I don't yet understand the full truth of it:  "Making a living" is a lie that the opposition has created to keep us from Living.  It's a distraction, a smoke-and-mirrors trick designed to direct our attention away from the things that really matter.  It's a way of stealing our focus and energies away from what we are made for.  I'm not saying that it doesn't matter.  Let's face it -- food and shelter matter!  They matter a great deal.  Good news, though -- our creator knows this.  Whether you believe it or not, you were not individually hand-crafted only to be cast out and ignored! 

God promises this in his Word in Jeremiah 29:11  ""For I know the plans I have for you," says the LORD. "They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.""  I'm not even going to apologize to those of you who aren't Christian.  This is a fundamental Truth that I believe in, a promise that I cling to.  Why?  Because over and over again, it has proven to be true in my life.

So where am I going with this, you ask?  I want, no, scratch that, I NEED you to understand a vital distinction.  "Making a living" is about survival, nothing more.  It's that state of entropy that the universe tries to enforce on us, that place were we exist with as little energy as possible.  This journey is about Living.  I want all of us to quit just surviving and start coming Alive.  (Yes, the capitalization is completely intentional!)  I know, I keep coming back to this, and I apologize for that.  It's because I am incredibly dense and often stupid, and this blog is self-serving.  I am trying to convince my head of that which my spirit knows to be true.

Unlocking our creativity, in any and all of its myriad forms, is all about Living.

So what do we do?  I've known since sixth grade that I was made to write, but I've never done it.  Not fearlessly, not without letting those pesky questions of survival choke it off.

I suspect I'm also make to draw and paint and sculpt and... well, I'm made to make stuff.  Cool stuff, I hope.  But I'm definitely made to make stuff:  Inspiring, uplifting... stuff.  Not very well-defined, I know, but at least I know.  I'm lucky that way.  I also know that a lot of us on this journey aren't so lucky.  For what it's worth, there are many days when I'm not, either, when my knowledge of my purpose is utterly lost.   Fortunately, I believe that our creator didn't just hard-wire us with unique gifts and abilities, he also hard-wired us with the knowledge of their existence. 

The problem that we tend to face is that this knowledge is often incompatible with our thought processes, our logic and our worldly way of thinking.   We are programmed to ask the wrong question, to paraphrase John F. Kennedy, asking "...what I can do for my country (or my family, or my employer, or... whatever.)"  It's not that this is a bad question; in fact, it's a good question.  It's just the wrong question to unlock what we're made for, because the focus is on what the world needs. 

I read a passage recently that hit me like a two-by-four to the head, making me completely re-evaluate the question I was asking.  In his book "Wild at Heart," author John Eldredge quoted a passage by Howard Thurman:

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs.  Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

I was floored by the elegant simplicity of the words.  At first glance, it seems selfish, because the focus is on yourself.  In truth, it is the least selfish thing we can do, because in coming alive, we bring light into the lives of everyone around us.  Being alive is highly contagious!  If we engage in that which makes us come alive, we are throwing a stone into the still water of the entropy that the opposition tries to force on us.  The ripples spread to those around us.  Its the genuine answer to the "What can I do for..." question.  You can come alive, and in doing so you can breathe life into those around you.

I know many of us are on this journey feel lost, with no sense of direction.  I believe, however, that each of us has experienced moments in time that made us feel alive, in the truest sense of the word.  To find what we are made for, we have to be willing to explore those moments, to play time-traveler in our heads and return to them.  For some of us, maybe even all of us, it's going to be difficult.  The world we live in makes it hard to hold onto those moments.  They get buried under layers of stress and disbelief.  Voices whisper that it wasn't really that good, that we are romanticizing those moments.  The unbeliever in each of us will bring up the imperfect moments that followed, the greater context, the ugly waste that life dumped on us in the time that surrounded those moments.  Our "logic" will seek with everything it has to diminish the glow of those moments and convince us of their insignificance.

All of those things are lies.  They are the entropy, the opposition, the Enemy striving to keep us away from discovering that those "perfect moments in time" actually existed for each of us!  I don't know about you, but I have lost all patience with those forces that seek to steal these things from me, and I am striking back by reclaiming them.  These moments of wonder, of Life, are real and must not be diminished!  We must dig for them, treasure them and hold onto them.  The clues we so desperately need lie within them.

I can offer a real-world illustration from my own life.  When I moved away from New Mexico nearly twelve years ago, it wasn't long before I started to ache for what I'd left behind.  Without going into detail, we didn't leave under the best circumstances -- I was the human equivalent of whipped dog with his tail tucked between his legs.  I started to romanticize our lives here, to ache for the blue of the sky, the color of the sunset on the Sandias, the scent of pinon smoke coming from fireplaces on a fall morning, for the golden color of the late-afternoon light and the low roar of hot air balloons in the sky.  In my cynical heart, I knew that I wasn't remembering it as it really was, knew it with everything I had.  I convinced myself that I was just romanticizing the memory because our current circumstances sucked.

But...  when I finally returned to visit, I discovered something interesting.  The sky over New Mexico really is that big and blue.  The color of the sunset on the Sandias really is stunning, as is the quality of that golden late-afternoon light.  When I caught the scent of pinon smoke and sopapillas in the air of the north valley, my heart released and whispered "I am home."  For me, it was real, all of it, just as I remembered.  This place, this magical land, is a vital part of me.  I don't understand why, but it is part of what makes me come alive.  At the heart of things, that's why I've returned to this place, despite what it may cost me.

As I look back, I see so many perfect moments in time in my life:  My granddad walking in the door and picking me up when I couldn't have been much more than two years old; riding in the back seat of Dad's '55 Chevy and laughing at the sun blinking through the leaves of cottonwood trees; backpacking with Mom and Dad in the Pecos and reaching the top of a long climb to see a breathtaking alpine meadow with snow-capped peaks behind it.  There was that terrifying moment in sixth grade when Mrs. Martinez made me read my story aloud to the class, and suddenly I was... cool.  Me, the geek.  I could do something wonderful that no one else in the room could do.  (I know that one or two of you who are reading these pages were actually there in that classroom.  Did you know that you were a vital part of one of my "perfect moments?")  There was that amazing moment in the earliest days of my relationship with my wife when I realized that this incredible girl, who had no reason to trust me, trusted me completely.   Those magical moments when I looked into the eyes of each of my kids for the first time.  These, and so many more...

There is a danger in returning to these moments, especially when our current existence is harsh and unforgiving.  It is a danger born of the opposition.  If our enemy can't get us to deny the reality of those moments, he will try to seduce us into entropy by getting us to dwell in them.  Just as we should not deny the real and life-giving reality of those moments, we cannot allow ourselves to be lulled into living in the past.  Life is not designed to be lived in the past, nor consumed by worrying about the future.  At this point in our existence, we are temporal beings.  We exist in the Present, the Now.  The Now is the only place where we can have impact.  Yes, the ripples of our actions can move forward into the future, but the land of Here and Now is where we have the power to affect change.

If that's the case, then why think on those "perfect moments in time?"  I believe it is because the keys to unlocking our effectiveness in the present lie in those moments.  For me, there are underlying themes that run through all my perfect moments:  Love; Beauty; Discovery; Encouragement; Empowerment; Creation; Trust; Faithfulness; Contentment.  In every perfect moment I can recall, at least one of these themes lie at the core of its perfection; often, three or more blend together.  These are the core elements that are woven through the core of all that I am.   These are the heart of me.

I wish I was a better writer, that I could say this more eloquently.  It matters so much, and I feel that my words are woefully inadequate to the task.  Fortunately, I'm not limited by my own abilities, and I trust that God will use me effectively to talk to you, despite my limitations.  Here's what I'm trying to say:  If you honestly look back over your own life and examine those perfect moments, I promise you that you will discover underlying themes of your own.  You will find your own heart, your own essential elements, your own core truths.  This isn't mumbo-jumbo!  It is the fulfillment of God's promise that if we seek Him, we will find him.  In seeking the truth that is woven through the fiber of your being, you are seeking the image of the creator that is embedded in you.  I know this to be true, with everything I am and everything I have the potential to be.

There's a lot of self-help and self-discovery advice out there in the world, and a lot of it is good.  The world, however, tends to twist the definition of those core themes we are looking for in our perfect moments.  What we are not searching for in these moments are those aspects that leave us crying, "More, more, I want more!"  Yes, most of our perfect moments have an element of this.  "More, I want more," is our physical, psychological, worldly response to that which is pleasing and perfect.  Unfortunately, it's also the response that drives many of our most destructive impulses.  It's the force behind our desire for more stuff, more money, more love, more whatever, and it is insatiably hungry and it can never, ever be satisfied.  Do you see why we don't want to fixate on these elements of our perfect moments?

At the heart of every perfect moment in our lives, there is something deeper than the desire for more.  There is an element that touches something deeper in us, that moves past the flesh and into the spirit.  If we are willing to look deep enough, I am convinced that we will always find an element that makes us feel complete, that overwhelms us with a sense of wonder.  It's that sense of completeness and contentment that serves to make that moment in time stand out for us, to let us recall them with such perfect clarity.  I lack the credentials to convince you through logical means, so all I can do is say what I know to be true:  Those elements of perfect moments that give us the sense of completion and wonder are the heart of our unique, hard-wired creative gifts.

I know, I know – this feels like a rabbit trail.  Sounds good, but it's all useless if you can't apply it to your life.  Concept without action does you no good whatsoever.  Here's the thing, though.  We CAN apply this directly to our lives, now, today!  As you examine your perfect moments, ask yourself why it was perfect.  What was it that you did in that moment that gave you that sense of contentment?  Now here’s the tough part, at least for me:  Don't focus on where you were, or what others were doing, but rather on your actions, your choices, your responses.  Direct your thoughts to those aspects of that moment that are internal,  to the things that you had control over:  i.e., yourself.  Then move from the past to the now, and look at your life and the choices you are making today.  Ask yourself how you can choose to respond to your current life in a way that will allow you to feel that blessed contentment again.

For this to be effective, it will require action on your part.  You have to Choose, and you have to Do.  You have to be willing to appear selfish, to do things that breath life into the heart of you.  You have to be willing to actively resist those forces in your life that seek to discourage you.  If, in examining your perfect moment, you said to yourself, "It felt so good to have painted that picture," then you have to be willing to pick up a paintbrush and paint again, without worrying about whether the painting will be good or not.  The painting itself is the byproduct, not the goal.  If your contentment was in just looking in the eyes of your lover on your first date, then you have to be willing to risk just looking deep into their eyes again, no matter how long you have been together or how rocky the relationship may be.  You have to be willing to risk having them say "What on earth are you doing?"  You have to be willing to appear silly, or foolish, or sentimental.  You even have to be willing to fail.

Why?  Because just like the painting, success is a byproduct, not a goal.  Our world has mixed that all up and confused us.  Our world has taught us to always put the cart in front of the horse.  Is it any wonder that we are all so confused and messy?

One more thing:  It doesn't have to be big, or life-changing, for it to change your life.  Sometimes, perhaps even most times, it is the small choices that can make the biggest difference.  As I've been thinking back over my "perfect moments in time," I've noticed something interesting.  It is very, very rare that they are anything more than a moment.  Not a day, or an hour, or even minutes.  So very many of them are only seconds long.  Moments, and yet they shape and sustain me.

It's been a rough week.  Yesterday was scary, full of very real worries about our immediate future.  I thought I had solutions, only to run into obstacles I could not overcome.  I was at my desk, trying to find solutions, and the dogs scratched at the door to be let out.  I opened the door, and discovered that it was starting to rain, and the sweet scent of the air captured me.  I don't know if I can explain this, but the rain smells different here.  It is cleaner somehow, pure and alive.  In Oklahoma, the rain always carried an underlying scent of decay to it, and I'd missed the clean scent of New Mexico rain.  With all the fear, it would have been so easy to close the door and turn away... 

Instead, I stepped out on the back porch and drew the perfume of the desert rain deep into my lungs, closed my eyes and savored it.  For an instant, I was transported back to days sitting with Granddad Williams on his front porch, watching the thunderheads build and roll in over the city; to the soft music of rainfall on the bricks of our courtyard in Llanito while a fire burned in the fireplace of my studio there; to every moment of peace I've ever experienced while watching the rain.  It was just a moment out of my day, five seconds or so, but it changed me.  By claiming that moment, I altered my outlook, changed my perspective.  I reminded myself that there are greater things in the universe than the fears that threatened to overwhelm me.  It was a perfect moment, claimed in the midst of my personal hell.  Because of that moment, I remembered that one of the things that makes me come alive in the here and now is sharing these thoughts with you.

Look for that magic within yourself.  Dare yourself to remember what you love to do, and then grant yourself permission to do it.  Touch that place of contentment and wonder within yourself without constraining yourself with the expectations of specific outcomes.  Allow yourself to Be, and you will open yourself to Become.

Finally, I want to reassure you, and myself, and it may seem contradictory.  If you feel confident and safe, sure that you are on the right path...  dig deeper.  Keep peeling back the layers until you find the thing that you ache for, but that fills you with unreasoning fear, and then pursue that path.  Why?  Because a spirit of fear is not a spirit of God.  Fear is a tool of our Enemy, of the opposition.  Your creator will not make you feel afraid, but you can be assured that the opposition will use fear as a tool to keep you from going where he doesn't want you to go.  I know my logic may seem messed up here, but the heart of me is starting to recognize me that my fear serves as a signpost, not warning me away but showing me where to go!  Yes, I know what I'm saying here, and I pray that this isn't one of those times that I lead you astray. 

If we are going to lay claim to the heart of what God made us to be, I think we have to do what scares us most.

Wow, I wonder where that came from.  More soon.  Think on your perfect moments.