It’s been almost two weeks since I drove onto the grounds of Glen Eyrie and marveled at the red rock formations—ancient towers of sandstone flanking a 19th century castle, Victorian England meets the Wild West. I’d grown up in Colorado but had forgotten how beautiful it is.
I was there for the C.S. Lewis Writer’s Conference—a much-anticipated weekend. Writers are a special bunch and having two whole days to talk about the craft, commiserate about the challenges, and spur each other on to love and good works—that’s my idea of a holiday (on par, of course, with Lewis’s holiday at the sea—not yet heaven, but a precursor to be sure, deepening and augmenting a longing for what’s to come).
The cherry on top of an already delightful gathering (I mean—the cafe had an entire menu of literary teas) was getting to meet my fellow artists of the Cultivating Project, to see in the flesh people whose faces I’d known only from the pixilated images and postage-stamp-sized squares of Zoom gatherings. To see each person in the fullness of their being! To shake hands and exchange hugs! To sit side-by-side! A joy, to be sure.
And isn’t it to be expected that at the center of such goodness, the moment one nestles into the warmth of new friendship, that sly voice, the father of lies, will whisper in your ear just the smallest word of doubt? A question—should you really be here? Can you really call yourself a writer, a poet?
Then the battle begins. A familiar one, at least for me, and one I’ve been engaging in as long as I can remember—the battle of belonging. As a kid who spent her early years shuffled between homes, always just a little on the outskirts of the familial community, loved but never feeling fully at home anywhere, gatherings like this conference can give weight to the longing to belong and that weight can press on old wounds, causing them to flare up with a familiar pain.
It’s taken me a long time to realize that’s what’s happening in these settings—a narrative of illegitimacy surfacing once again, asserting that I have no justifiable claim to call myself a member of this group.
Sheesh. Way to ruin the party. But there it is. The persistent struggle. I think, maybe, I’m not alone in this?
There was a brief moment where I found myself behind the wheel of my grandma’s car (which she had kindly lent me for the weekend—the perks of having family nearby) thinking, I could just leave. That would be okay. I wouldn’t really be missed by anyone. (Angsty teenager much?)
But then I realized, perhaps I’m doing, in part, what someone early on in the conference warned us against doing (Lancia Smith? Jonathan Rogers? Steve Laube? Someone else entirely?)—asking the vocation of “writer” to bear the weight of my identity. Asking the writing community to bear the weight of justifying my existence, securing my status as the member of something lasting and significant, giving substance to my being.
Goodness. Nothing like looking yourself right in the eye, or better yet, having Christ look right into your soul and (gently) reveal what’s really there.
I’m happy to report that in the throes of my mini-existential crisis, I did not drive off into the midday sun with nary a goodbye.
Instead, something in me, that I’d like to think was the Holy Spirit, gave me the grace to re-enter the castle (literally, not metaphorically), climb the stairs to the Queen’s Parlor (yaaas, queen!), and slip into a seat for the next breakout session. Did I have to spend the first few minutes pretending to look for a pen in my bag with the single-minded focus of Indiana Jones on the hunt for an ancient relic just to avoid making eye contact with anyone so as not to break down and ugly cry right there? Yes, I did. But am I glad I went? Yes, I am.
That session, Amy Malskeit guided us through what it could be like to write with God. She looked to the psalms in all their guttural honesty, drew others into the conversation, gave us space to write our own sort of psalm.
Yesterday, as I was turning to a new page in my journal, a leaf fell into my lap. A leaf-leaf, not a page-leaf—sage green, oval in shape, soft to the touch like a fine fleece. Amy had handed ‘round a tray at the beginning of her talk and encouraged us to pick something from among the natural treasures she’d gathered from the grounds.
I needed something soft, so I picked the leaf. And as I ran my thumb up and down it, back and forth, I began to soften. Breath deepening, shoulders relaxing, jaw unclenching, body settling into my seat, my muscles no longer feeling the need to be ready to flee.
I didn’t take many notes that session, not because there weren’t any to take, but because it was lovely to be there, to give myself permission to simply receive. So I don’t have many specifics to share with you, but what I distinctly remember is Amy’s grounded presence (rooted, I’ve a feeling, in Christ) that gave the room a hushed and holy feel, pitching a tabernacle in our midst where God could meet with us, where we could talk about writing and then write in His presence; where, held by Him, we could form thoughts into words without any need to write ourselves a life raft or use our words to remain afloat. We could just lean back and rest in his expansive, capable hands.
And since we’d no need to bear our own weight or, in our own strength, bear each other’s, since his hands are big enough to hold entire galaxies, and therefore, roomy enough to hold all of us, we could simply be there together, knowing we belong because we all fit in His hands. And to think—when we write from there, we get to invite others in to the capacious dwelling place of God’s love.
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