Divining Wisdom

I keep waiting for the burning bush. Like Moses, I somehow think that God’s voice will speak to me in lightning-strike ways. You see, I have a gift of writing and I know I am supposed to use it, but I keep pretending I don’t know how.

Yes I know how. I’ve bought every book on the subject, devoured every class, every wisp of wisdom I can possibly conjure. I have even written and published my own book. My spirit is chock full of head knowledge, yet somehow I wait for the lightning.

I know writing is what I am meant to do because it won’t go away. It’s that gnawing thing that lurks around the depths of my spirit. It’s the thing I think about at stoplights and grocery store lines, the moments that remind me that I should be doing something more with my gift than this.

Doing the real work to follow your heart and plod day after day, spelunking your dream, requires a heart-stopping Geronimo of sorts. The real desires of the heart are like a sacred minefield: Loaded with awe, yet somehow emotionally risky on all counts.

The reality is I know I’m supposed to use this gift, not because I get messages or divine dreams or anything of that sort. I know it because every time I move toward my dream, the Big Guy validates it by sending encouragement. It’s not always perfectly clear and easy. But I know and He knows and that’s all that counts. Plus it makes my toes curl. That’s my test for everything—important decisions, relationships and what to do on Saturdays. Toes curl, yes. No toe action, nope.

Even though I know it in my head, I feel as if I am glued to this fence of what to do. I guess I don’t want to screw it up. This perfect dream, this sacred soulful desire that is elegantly high above me on an altar-like platter. I would rather look at the neat monument than make the sacrifice of really living it. To be a real writer is not pretty. It’s vulnerable, it’s hard, it’s monotonous, it’s mean. And when it comes to the hard stuff, I don’t know if I can cut it.

In some ways that’s why I wait. Like Moses, I feel like God may have made a mistake. If I sit here long enough, somehow it might get easier. I can gather more strength, perfect my technique, get some more classes, intuit some more writerly mind. Anything but actually head into the wilderness of risky, wolf-laden territories to find who knows what. I don’t even have a map or a bread crumb trail to follow.

Going after your dream is probably the gutsiest thing a woman could do. When I actually put my writing out there, I feel like I have climbed Mount Everest. Twice. Even better is getting paid for your dream. It feels like Willy Wonka Golden Ticket Money. I remember when I first got paid $20 for a column that I wrote weekly for my hometown newspaper. Staring at the check in my hands brought such emotional triumph. I was actually getting paid to do this. Unbelievable. This was not money to be spent on laundry or groceries. This was sacred money meant for trips to Paris and seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time.

Still, the gift keeps bugging me. Constantly tapping me on the shoulder, keeping me up at nights, absorbing pages and pages in my daily journal. Which brings me back to my point and my fence-sitting. Getting over myself and getting on with it feels like the easiest and hardest thing to do. It’s so much easier to get lost in the laundry, the house, the kids, your negative relatives, or other people’s problems. It’s easier to obsess about everything but the soulful place that must be brought forth.

Each day that passes when I don’t write, a bit of me gets dimmer. The writer room inside of me must be aired out, blinds flung up and windows thrown open. It’s the place I am plugged into me—the real me. Every logical brain cell in my head says to get over it, find a real job, you’ll never make any money, who do you think you are, you are not smart enough, clever enough, writerly enough. You cannot do it.

Then there is that still small voice in me that says “just do one thing.” Make a call, read a book, write a few sentences, connect with a mentor, keep going. I eventually do and it feels Herculean. I know it’s the Big Guy and that is the voice to be listened to and heeded.

So today I begin again. Doing the only thing I know to do—pen to paper for as long as I can. Movement is far better than waiting for lightning to strike. Even if I fail miserably at my dream, at least it will make for interesting adventures. And that is all the wisdom I need.