“Don’t be afraid of not knowing what to do. Part of the creative process is not knowing what to do. It will appear. It will reveal itself beyond you. There is no big secret. There’s just courage, perseverance, complexity. And complexity is just multiple simplicities. One step at a time. That’s all there is.”
— Eddie Marsan“Does one’s integrity ever lie in what he is not able to do? I think that usually t does, for free will does not mean one will, but many wills, conflicting in one man.”
— Flannery O’Connor“I didn’t know back then that the Christian story is the story of our rebellion against God. I didn’t know that by taking part in that rebellion I had become part of the story, whether I liked it or not. I didn’t know, either, why Christians see pride as the greatest sin.”
— Paul Kingsnorth
I recall vividly when I gave up hunting in my 20s. Having shot a wild rabbit with my .410, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the thought that it was too easy. Perhaps I felt that it was unsportsmanlike or one-sided. What I actually remember is: “Cannot do this. Too easy.”
It took me much longer to understand that I wasn’t necessarily drawn to difficult things, but that I had an aversion to easy. When it came to my creative talents, it caused me to be less interested in things that seemed effortless, even if I was quite good at them. I was more interested in things I couldn’t do as well or had never tried before. I relied on my patience. Make no mistake, I definitely could be impatient, but it nearly always brought failure. Trying my hand at new things could bring failure, too, and that fed my insecurities. I must not be as good as others thought. Easy felt hollow. Especially when my motive was the approval of others. Nothing compared to when patience paid off with achievement or success (whatever those are). I wasn’t well served when that sort of thing led to artistic obsession, or when it spilled over into my life: personal excess, self-destructive conduct, experimentation with danger, and patterns of negative psychology. (Oh, and have I mentioned that I gave up the culture of holy sacraments into which I was born?)
I was miserable, did not know what to do about it, and barely could recognize that I was woefully mixed up. I squandered mentor after mentor. I finally chose to turn things around when it was no longer easy, but now I couldn’t do it by myself. It required the family members who were always there and a woman who cared for the real me, in spite of my superficialities — all as an expression of the mercy of a loving God, the source and supreme essence of true patience.
As everybody who knows me understands, it was a crooked trail, to say the least. A child of television, it took episodes of Kung Fu to get a bit of wisdom to seep through my hard shell, but I didn’t undertake martial arts until I got back from my ordeal in Europe (which had only compounded my self-absorbed bewilderment). I began to meditate when I thought that the TM craze was my answer. I began swearing off bad habits, but flirted with narcissism, dietary fanaticism, and personality cults to pull it off (oh, those hazardous “ISMs and OSMs”).
And yet, even if progress seemed apparent, I didn’t grasp the difference between gifts and grace. Gifts are finite, come with obligations, and are only deserved if met with individual development. Grace is undeserved and infinite. Without grace, gifts or talents are without meaning and can be fraught with pitfalls. This is actually an easy thing to understand in hindsight, but not for somebody with a phobia for easy. And so the difficult path was mine to walk.
At the risk of oversimplification, I came full circle through the intercession of Christ — through prayer, the rosary, and contemplation. There are many souls who played a part. Most of them are those who loved me more than I knew how to love them. Plus the saints and masters whose teachings would pave the way to break through my barriers and open a connection to God through inner silence (including Sister Mary Otho Ballard, Thomas Merton, John Main, Thomas Keating, Bede Griffiths, Eckhart von Hochheim, and the anonymous 14th-century English monk who penned The Cloud of Unknowing).
Eventually, I started hunting again. When it wasn’t easy. When I could appreciate it as a blessing from the Spirit of nature. I don’t know if I have a gift for hitting what I aim at. If I do, I won’t let it go to waste. I know what my true gift is, and where it comes from. I am beginning to put things in context. I can see my flaws, contradictions, and confusion about what to do each day as part of my fallen state of being. Just like every artist. Just like every man and woman.
And now, on my 74th birthday, I accept that the Almighty, Everlasting Creator took on the totality of human nature, with its wretched weakness and suffering, to redeem me forever. To arise in victory over sin, disease, and death. Has he not sent His Spirit to comfort and direct me, to love and enlighten me, to guard and defend me, in every place, in every way, at every moment? To live fully with that recognition is the beginning of authentic freedom. Most of all when I don’t have a clue what to do next.
After spending the rest of the day completing my poster design for this year’s Brass Band Festival, I reached out to my own mother and conveyed my fond greetings on her annual day. As usual, I was the last of her children to call. I think she might’ve had a nicer observance, were it not for all the ongoing doctor and dentist complications. The endless appointments, procedures, and prescriptions seem to be dragging down her quality of life. Her inclination is to chuck it all and do without, but, obviously, that’s not something she considers a realistic option, so, just like our Mombo, she keeps plugging and hangs on for the next period of well-being. (She deserves it. That’s my prayer and I’m sticking to it.)