Not Waiting for Inspiration

 I have pledged to return to writing.

Sometimes it is easy, the inspiration strikes and words flow readily.  All they require is for me to sit down quickly and start typing.

What to do on days I don't feel the juice?  I am fairly worn out.  Today is Sunday.  I have the time.  I already took care of the week's schedule and payroll.  Sketched out a calendar and some menus.  Absolutely nowhere to go except to the washer and dryer and perhaps the kitchen and bathroom for tidy up.  

I have the idea if I wait for inspiration, perhaps it won't find me.  Maybe I need to trust inspiration can strike even in the middle of a rote practice.  

For example, I sit in my beat up old hand me down chair in the corner of my room.  The window is open and a soft breeze caresses my cheek and seems to tell me secrets.  I am listening!  No other noise around but the sound of my work papers fluttering.

Or, A tiny little alcove in my bedroom holds a Book of Common Prayer and a hymnal.  Set upon the books a beautifully painted box filled with whispered prayers of panic and pleading, wishes and fears.  They are covered in dust telling the truth to anyone who cares to look.   

Hmmmm.  I have been a person of faith for my whole life.  Seeing the mystical and magical woven all around me, through the shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds, or the drops of dew glistening on the moss.  My dad led the singing at the tiny country churches we attended.  Mom played the piano.  Singing around the piano with my parents and their best friends is still one the things that delights me more than anything. 

Uh oh.  The tears started flowing and I just remembered there will be no more singing around the piano with my dad.  

I haven't been in church more than twice the past few years.  The most recent time was at my dad's funeral, and to tell you the truth I am perfectly content if I never set foot in a church again.

Whoa.  I said it.  Out loud where people might actually read this and become very concerned.  I am going to assume my kids are the only ones reading this.  Since they know me and love me I don't have to fear their judgement.  

It isn't very complicated.  I have completely lost faith in the trappings of religion.  I am not exactly certain what I believe about God and Jesus these days.  Well.  I am certain that if there is a God, he/she would certainly transcend gender, denominations, sects, religions.  Oh.  And politics.  

I might be a bit more comfortable with the concept of the Holy Spirit.  

This shedding has been going on for years and years.  No, not because my husband died and I am angry at God for taking him.  Although I have had quite a few questions about that.  For one, since Philip was the more spiritual, the more holy and committed to an evangelical belief system, wouldn't God have left him here? He would be the influence my children needed to keep them in the church?  When my children, okay, not kids anymore, have spoken to me about the loss of their faith, about their doubts, I sadly smile and agree that it is sometimes confusing to not have the certainty of our former belief system.  

Evidence overwhelms me again and again as I seem to perceive the hand of some invisible source providing, directing.  So in what exactly have I lost faith ?  I still pray, setting forth my intentions and desires.  Sometimes around the table with Mom I end my prayers "in Jesus' name" and it is comforting.  I do not mean it the way I did some years ago.  Not at all.

I believe the wind and the trees speak to me on a regular basis.  I believe when I set my heart toward gratitude, a shift occurs, bringing about change.  I speak to dead people all the time, their spirits so real I can almost, not quite touch them.  Right, Dad?  Right, Philip? And then I laugh at myself and tell myself I don't care one whit if I am merely speaking to myself and it is the computer in my brain answering back, and not the spirits of these dearly departed.  

When assailed by fear or joy or gratitude or worry, saying a prayer (to whom? I don't care!) is a connection to something bigger than me.  

This loss of my former faith makes many folks sad and confused. I certainly don't mind if they pray for me.  Truth is, I don't feel very confused at all anymore. 

I look up from my chair, laptop in lap.  About the time I think my pal, the wind, has gone on and left me behind, he? she? comes in and tenderly touches my cheek.  Such loving comfort.  It moves me deeply and I have to hold myself back from sobbing so as not to concern Nora.  I may not be confused.  But there are all flavors of grief.  It was easier, back in the day, when I was so certain.  Maybe I should pull out that sacred hand painted little box, peruse the little slips of paper.  Maybe it is time to make a little fire, present them as a burned offering.  A great big thank you to the powers that be for getting me from there to here.  Maybe it is time to start writing out my concerns and wishes on tiny slips of paper to tuck in the box. I don't have to define anything.  What if this blog is a bit of my prayer?  Sharing an authentic piece of human with the world.  Making myself vulnerable with my words.  Isn't that a prayer? 

In the meantime, I have the still afternoon, the sound of Nora stirring around in her room.  The cool breeze says summer is over and we can welcome a dear season of harvest.