Part I.
This
essay examines the role that inspiration
has played in my creative life; as a writer, as a thinker, as an academic.
Inspiration is a broad and multi-faceted subject, I
focus on three aspects: the moment, the content, and the expression of
inspiration.
So that
I may avoid engendering the misperception that my creative life has been an extended
moment of awe, mystery and transcendence, I will also present a discussion of
my struggles with a deep and pervasive sense of futility regarding my creative
mission, a negativism that has dogged me like a cynic over the years.
I have a
sharp sense for the inspired moment, moments that come in many ways, and not
all of them my own.
There
are not enough hours in the day for me to list the catalysts that have informed
my creative drive, but when they come together, those disparate things and
beings, those moments when memories interact with consciousness in real-time,
when relationships become apparent that had never before been discerned, when,
like alchemy, or a flash in the pan…wham!
The
creative spirit comes.
In those
moments, when my attention is keen, my attention is singular, a path toward the
end of a creative ambition becomes clear, and my will becomes fixed on a
specific set of steps, like the choreography of a dance. That is the inspired
state, when burgeoning insight is precipitously balanced with a readiness to
act.
These
moments come to all of us, we sense them when they do. The wise will seize
them, dwell within them, and linger in their space.
True inspiration is more than a feeling.
The
truly inspired moment comes into consciousness with content, it is the flash that
both illuminates and enlightens. It is a flare in the dark whose sudden
eruption points the way, either out, or in.
When inspired
content first springs to mind it is like that brief look you are allowed, of
the image you are trying to construct from a jig-saw puzzle. There it is, in
your mind, for a moment, and now you have to put it all together with only the
memory of that vision to guide you.
The
inspired moment is more than a feeling, more than awe, more than a sense of
mystery, or of transcendence, but feeling is an essential part of it, and that
feeling is not a tepid one.
Inspiration is light; yes, but not without heat.
It is hot with imperative, with the command to do; to write, to stand, to move.
Inspiration is like the germination of a seed, a
seed that is fully formed in its flower, and expressed completely in its fruit.
Inspiration is a force. It is dynamic. In a
literal way, inspiration is the
movement of the Spirit within us, enlivening, vivifying, it is as much a part
of us as the air we breathe. It is a “divine guidance or influence
exerted directly on the soul of humankind.”[1]
To speak
of inspiration in its aspects, or its parts, is somewhat artificial, perhaps
impossible, as if when speaking of a wave you can name its peak, and its
trough, without acknowledging that the two are essentially one, alternating and
changing.
The inspired moment must be followed by a
genuine enthusiasm for the work that lies ahead, enthusiasm which is itself
synonymous for the indwelling of the divine.[2]
When the inspired moment comes we must find a way to let it be within us.[3]
Inspiration is personal. It
occurs in the lives of real people, and though it comes with great power, it is
nevertheless subject to the cares and concerns of the individual, but the
caring for it comes throughout the course of our daily lives.
Part II.
Brenda Ueland says this about inspiration:
“Inspiration does not (in
fact) come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving but it comes to
us slowly and quietly all of the time. But we must regularly and every day give
it a chance to start flowing, and prime it with a little solitude and idleness.
I learned that when writing you should not feel like Lord Byron on a
mountaintop, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten – happy,
absorbed, and quietly putting one bead on after another.[4]”
It may appear that Brenda has said something different or contradictory
to what I said about inspiration in
part I of this essay, but she and I are not necessarily speaking to divergent
ends.
I have talked about the power of inspiration
as a force, about its flash and dynamism. Brenda says that inspiration it is not that. I have been talking about the beginning
of inspiration, she is talking about
what comes after the inspired moment.
Brenda is talking about living with inspiration,
about the inspired life that comes after the vision, she is talking about the
falling rain, after the thunder claps and the clouds burst.
What Brenda is talking about is the more important part of inspiration. The inspired moment may
fill us with vision and give us purpose, but nobody (nobody that I know of) can
live out their lives in that ecstatic state.
Inspiration is like
electricity. There is so much power in it. To stay in the inspired moment
forever would burn us up.
The key to living with inspiration,
to carrying out the inspired vision we
have received, is to regulate that power. We regulate it through habit, ritual
and disciplined work, like stringing
beads together in kindergarten, Brenda says we must allow for some
downtime, in order to give our circuitry a break.
Having space, being quiet, experiencing emptiness, these are essential
for cultivating inspiration.
Doris Lessing, says in her Nobel acceptance speech[5]: “Have you found that
space, that empty space, which should surround you when you write? Into that
space, which is a form of listening, of attention, will come the words, the
words your characters will speak, ideas—inspiration.”
Like Brenda Ueland, Doris Lessing is talking more about the care for,
and the nurturing of, the creative-will within us, what I would call the
expression of inspiration and the
cultivation of its content. This is something that should be differentiated
from the inspired moment itself.
Part III
In Part II of this essay, Nobel Laureate, Doris Lessing strikes the
most vital point. She addresses the need to listen, to listen to one’s self.
It is altogether easy to listen to our inner critic, that insipid,
clamoring voice knows exactly how to get our attention, but how much more
important, and life giving is it to listen to our creative voice, to hearken to
it music, and care for it, like the gardener who cares for the tender shoot as
it pokes its stem up from the soil to unfurl its fronds.
For art to find its expression we must give our creative voice the
attention it deserves, turn to it rather than the noisome din of the inner
critic?
We must listen to the clear pealing of the bell, whether it is faint or
loud.
Brenda Ueland said this in reference to the power of listening in her
essay Tell Me More:
“I want to write about the great and powerful thing that listening is,
and how we forget it. And how we don’t listen…to those we love. And least of
all, to those we don’t love. Because listening is a magnetic and strange thing,
a creative force.
“When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand.
Ideas actually begin to grow within us and come to life…It makes people happy
and free when they are listened to.
“When we listen to people there is an alternating current, and this
recharges us so that we never get tired of each other. Now this little creative
fountain is in all. It is the spirit, or the intelligence, or the
imagination—whatever you want to call it. If you are tired, strained, have no
solitude, run too many errands, talk to too many people, drink too many
cocktails, this little fountain is muddied over and covered with a lot of
debris. The result is that you stop living from the center…it is when people
really listen to us, with quiet fascinated attention, that the little fountain
begins to work again, to accelerate in the most surprising ways.”[6]
Take these words about listening, about how we feel when we are
listened to and relate them to our creativity.
If we can slow down, be fascinated with our ideas, and attentive to our
own needs, then we will have the time to express our creative voice.
If we listen to the stirring of the heart, that stirring will grow into
a song, and then a chorus, with a symphony to follow. It will expand and unfold
within us encompassing both our heights and our depths, extending itself
throughout our lives while conjoining our peaks and troughs, making of them a
singular unbroken wave.
Part IV.
What we have discussed to this point, in parts I – III of this essay,
that is the flowering side of the garden. It is the place where we love to be,
when everything is growing well and going right, but there are many times in
our lives, countless times, when inspiration
strikes and is not received. when it is received and not acted on, when it
is acted upon and is not fulfilled.
There are many forces; both within us, and without, that are opposed to
the power of inspiration. They are
the menial and the mundane, the day to day duties that obscure our vision, the
doubts that disrupt the voice of the muse, the cold fingers of fear clutching
at the heart, tearing at the will, and the hand that stills them.
The death of inspiration
comes through that inner critic, the one who tells us that our work is futile[7], frivolous, and useless,
the one who spreads the debris and the clutter that covers the bright and
bubbling fountain within us.
The Spirit blows where it will, and reaches everyone. The muses[8] sing to us all. Whether we
think of the force of inspiration as
divine, as a gift that comes from without, or as an innate power that is
inherent to our being, as our “true self” speaking to us. When the moment comes
we must, each of us, fit it into our busy lives, either that or forget about it
and watch it fade away.
Brenda Ueland says[9] that “the true self is really
the Conscience (or God)” not speaking to us about “morality or convention” but
daring us to explore the “truth (in ourselves) toward bravery and the greater
life.” When you find that truth, she says, your true self, “and see how gifted
you are, you can write as slowly as you want to.” You can let the world be the
world, and not let it set you off the course of fulfilling your vision.
The weal of our life will turn, our inspiration
will rise with it, if we let it. We will lift from it, and jump off it, just as
we reach the apex of the curve, or the moment will pass, as we cling to the
wheel, as it turns around, and down we go, pushed into the ground of
uselessness and futility.
Part V.
I have been inspired, felt the spirit of inspiration move within me. I have been overcome by the hot flash
of a great idea, felt the deep desire to act, heard the voice within me
speaking; slowly, steadily, quietly; and at other times; fast, demanding, and
loud. I have not always listened, but then again, I have not always known how.
The moment of inspiration can
be startling. As awesome as inspiration
can be, it is not always brought about by the sublime, the divine and the
lovely. Truth, beauty, and goodness are not the only things that catch my
attention or make me want to do something.
Sometimes I am moved by what is altogether mundane, human, and vicious,
by evil, ugliness and lies. Sometimes I am moved not to stand up, but to take a
stand, not to move, but to be unmoving.
When inspiration comes, the
heart and the mind must be open. Inspiration
may be triggered from outside of ourselves, from something we witness, such
as the splendor of nature, a grand view, or a shocking event.
Inspiration may come from
something small and simple, from a conversation, or a question. The moment may
come, and go in an instant, leaving it up to us to make sense of its
significance, to the mediation of our genius,
or the daemon within us.[10]
Part
VI.
There is an encounter that plays itself out in my consciousness over
and over again. The encounter between my inspiration,
and futility, by which I mean doubt about the purpose I feel that I am directed
toward.
This is the dialog between my creative self and my inner critic.
For instance, I have been, and I am inspired to share with Christians
the gospel as I understand it, which is a gospel centered on the hope of universal salvation.
My first encounter with this doctrine came out of my own active
imagination, a discourse with my daemon, if
you will. It came by thinking logically about some of the most basic claims
that Christians make about God: that God is love, and loving; that God is
all-powerful (omnipotent), that God has the perfect ability to accomplish God’s
will; that God is all-knowing (omniscient), that God knows us, understands us,
even as we know ourselves; that God is omnipresent (not, not-present in any
space), that God is with us and God wants us with God.
These claims led me to the logical conclusion that, when all things are
said and done, there are no barriers to
God having God’s way in the matter of our salvation.
If God truly wills the salvation of all people, which Christian
doctrine claims that God does, then God will save all people.
My grasp of this argument came in a flash. It came as inspiration. It was both intuitive and
revelatory, and it came when I was fairly young, at the age of fifteen.
In the ten years that followed I did not do much with this idea, except
that I would using it in the occasional argument I might have with a fundamentalist
Christian.
In that period there were moments when I would recapture that feeling
of inspiration, but not every
argument I pursued produced those feelings. When I would argue the doctrine
with people who could grasp the logic, that feeling of inspiration would ignite inside of me, I would want to linger in
the conversation and explore all of its implications, both in terms of human
destiny, and in terms of the future of Christianity.
However, when my interlocutors could not grasp the logic, I often felt
like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing that
great rock up the hill. The same words and concepts that might delight me on
one occasion, would on another occasion come out sounding like a drone in my
ears.
Or, what was even worse for me were the occasions when I found myself
talking and talking all night long, and really enjoying the sound of my voice,
exalting in the feelings I got from my partner in dialog, or whoever else might
be listening, but walking away at the end of it thinking that I had accomplished
nothing more than the self aggrandized-stroking of my ego.
When I was twenty-five years old I was beginning to organize a research
paper for my undergraduate major in theology. I deeply wanted to write about
this doctrine. It was still inspiring me, and now it was motivating me to do
something, to write, to research to demonstrate the validity of my claims in a
formal way. I was moving beyond the arm-chair, outside of the coffee house, and
though I was merely an undergraduate, I felt that I was doing real work in
theology.
There was something else happening inside me as well. I was learning a
lot. I was encountering more people, specifically, more educated people, people
who wanted to argue with me, people who could hold up their end of the argument
much better than the street corner variety of born-again-Christian.
I was also beginning to get a clear sense of the weight of history, of
the philosophy of Christianity, its institutions, in its liturgy, and the power
behind the traditional Christian doctrines that were arrayed against my simple
logic.
It felt like that lil old ant, who thinks he can move that rubber tree plant. I
had high hopes, but those hopes, and the inspired purpose that fueled them were
frequently being assailed by a deepening sense of futility.
The question that my inner critic was asking me was this:
Is it possible for the most crystal-clear expression of the logic in
Christian doctrine that I could change two thousand years of history and
practice regarding the belief in hell and the theology of damnation?
Possible yes (I guess), but likely, no.
The creative spirit within me, my genius,
was good at getting the last word, “keep working” it would say. “keep
producing, keep on arguing.”
Part VII.
As an undergraduate I wrote my senior paper for my theology major on
the topic of universal salvation, and then I doubled down on it and wrote my
senior paper for my philosophy major on the same subject.
By the time I was done with that work, my research had uncovered some
things for me.
The twentieth century had given
the world many extremely intelligent, talented, philosophers and theologians
who had been writing about this same topic. They were Oxford Dons, and
University of Chicago Doctors, the alumni of one storied institution or
another.
Their work inspired me. I wanted to lend my voice to theirs, carry on
the good work, fight the good fight. However, the deeper I delved into the
field, the more often I was faced with questions like this:
What is the point?
Why do I care?
If everyone is saved no matter
what, why spend time and energy trying to convince people who do not believe
it?
If in the end, it does not matter
what a person believes, what church they belong to, why even bother with Christian
Doctrine?
This is the voice of futility. It is my inner critic undermining me,
attempting to convince me to give up, that the question that had inspired me
was meaningless.
I learned that I was not the first person to be moved by this question,
and not the first to resolve it. I learned that I would not be the last person
to struggle with it.
Most importantly, I learned that there was very little that could be
done to change the minds of the billions of Christians, Muslims, Jews and
others who think and feel differently about our shared spiritual destiny. Most
mono-theists, those who believe in some form of hell, they do not believe that
God condemns people to hell because logic tells them so, they believe it
because they want to believe it, because it makes them feel good.
I learned that logic, by itself, will not free them from those
beliefs.
My education was doing two things, it was arming me with more evidence,
more arguments, more history. It was preparing me with expanded powers to synthesize
and communicate those ideas. At the same time, it was informing me that no
matter how great my dialectical powers might become, I would have little power
to persuade the hearts and minds of the unwilling.
As for the willing, well, they were already with me, and that is
preaching to the choir.
This is the nexus where my inspiration
and my sense of futility meet, where my genius
and my inner critic were hanging out inside my head. What happens in this
encounter is very important, not just for me, but for everyone.
If you want to be true to the movement of the spirit within you, you
may be called to stay with it for a very long time. You must listen to
yourself, to the stirring in your heart, the choir that is singing there, like
the bubbling of a fountain.
Part VIII.
I have spoken of inspiration
as a flash, a flare, a fire within, but it is more than that.
Inspiration
is more than a vision that brings a small bit of joy, a quick illumination, or
a fragment of understanding. If it were only that, then the vision would be a
mirage, the illumination would burn as quickly as lime, and the understanding
it imparted would be superficial.
Inspiration, when
it is true, is a call to action. Sometimes what the inspired moment calls you
to do, can be done quickly, and then it is over. Other inspired moments can
call you to rearrange your entire life, while you engage with the inspiration throughout. The longer the
commitment, the greater the temptation will be to yield to the inner critic and
allow the inspired moment fade away under the force of futility.
You cannot escape the forces of futility. They work on
the will and the imagination like entropy. Futility will assert itself and be
an active part of working out your calling. And here is the thing, if you are
dealing honestly with that force, if you grapple with it, you will find renewed
inspiration in that struggle.
When I was working out my master’s thesis, and in the
years since, I discovered that, none of my good ideas about universal salvation were new. I figured
this out early in my research, many modern philosophers and theologians had
written about the things that I was thinking about. I learned that every
generation of Christians since the time of Christ had someone in the global
community saying these exact same things.
The discovery I was making, each new voice I found was
met by me with a kind of joy. It was a comfort to read their thoughts, to
understand my own thoughts as an echo of theirs moving forward in time. We were
sisters and brothers in the struggle to share the most poignant ppiece of the
gospel, to tell the really goodnews: believe
not so that you may be saved, believe that you are saved already and rejoice.
Then slowly, inexorably the weariness would set in.
The resignation that came from the understanding that all of these good people,
all of us, we were all like exiles in Christianity, just a tiny minority within
the bigger movement.
The temptation to yield to futility can lead you to a
seed bed of new inspiration. This is
kind of like a buddy movie, where the two characters do not really get along:
your inner critic and your creative self, think of The Odd Couple, of Felix and Oscar, always on each other’s nerves,
and yet they are the best of friends.
At first blush, futility and inspiration seem like they are diametrically opposed, one voice is
calling you to action, the other is asking you to sit down. Each would like to
eliminate the other, but they are both a part of what makes us human.
Futility, like drag, will slow us down, this is not
always bad, it can give us the time and space to rethink our approach, to
listen, and even give us insight into how to move ahead better. Just because
our inner critic is a critic does not mean that she or he is wrong.
Remember the wisdom of Brenda Ueland, when she said:
The creative power
is in all of you (us) if you just give it a little time, if you believe in it
and watch it come quietly into you; if you do not keep it out by always
hurrying and feeling guilty during those times when you should be lazy and
happy. Or if you do not keep the creative power away by telling yourself the
worst of lies—that you don’t have any.[11]
Inspiration,
if it is true, and we are true to it, will continually assert itself in our
imagination, it will demand its place, find its voice, sometimes startling,
sometimes quietly. That voice is yours, and mine. It will lead us out of the
swamp, transform it into a verdant wetland, doing so in the light of our best
expression, coming as fulfillment, and the radiance of joy.
[1]
The American Heritage Dictionary,
Fourth Edition, Inspiration, “1. Stimulation of the mind or the emotions
to high level of feeling or activity. 5…Divine guidance or influence exerted
directly on the soul of humankind.”
[2]
Rollo May, The Courage to Create, p.
103 “Apollo spoke in the first person through Pythia…the god was said to enter
her at the very moment of her seizure, or enthusiasm,
as the root of that term en-theo
(‘in-god’), literally suggests.” W. W. Norton Company, New York, 1975.
[3]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A
Book about Art, Independence and Spirit: pp. 149-150. “Blake of course
thought the imagination and inspiration (which we all have, as I have said)
came from God and through God’s messengers; psychologists tell us it is rooted
in the unconscious. But one explanation is as good another. I prefer Blake’s
better because it is much easier to understand and more plausible…and remember
the word enthusiasm means divine inspiration.” BN publishing, 2008
[4]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A
Book about Art, Independence and Spirit: p. 47, BN publishing, 2008
[5]
Doris Lessing, Acceptance Speech, Nobel Prize for Literature, 2007.
[6]
Brenda Ueland, Tell Me More, Strength
to Your Sword Arm, pp. 205-210, Holy Cow! Press, Duluth 1984.
[7]
The American Heritage Dictionary,
Fourth Edition, Futile, “1. Having no useful result. 2. Trifling, and
frivolous; idle.”
[8]
The American Heritage Dictionary, Fourth
Edition, Muse, “1. Greek Mythology
Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus, each of whom resided over
a different art or science. 2. A guiding spirit.”
[9]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A
Book about Art, Independence and Spirit: p. 121, BN publishing, 2008
[10]
Both the Greeks and the Romans (as well as other ancient civilizations) had a
highly developed notion of the duality of human nature. They each believed that
our physical selves were accompanied by a spiritual being, coexisting with us
on another plane of reality. The Romans called this spiritual counterpart our genius, and the Greeks called it the daemon; from these we get our terms
“genius” and “demon.” A preference for Roman culture gave their word a positive
connotation, and a pejorative connotation to the Greek cognate. Classical
culture not only saw this aspect of ourselves as the point of contact between
us and the divine realms, but the Roman word for this also means “begetter.” It
is more than the aspect of ourselves that communicates inspiration, it is fundamentally the aspect of ourselves that
oversees the production or the carrying our of what we have been inspired to
do.
Barry B. Powell, Classical
Myth, p. 631, Prentice Hall, New Jersey, 1995.
[11]
Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, A
Book about Art, Independence and Spirit: p. 46, BN publishing, 2008
