Something happened this morning that alerted me to a writer's need for peace of mind. Ever since I felt called to write, I've dreamed of a retreat, a trailer in the desert, a mountain cabin.
But over the years, I've come to see that a retreat doesn't insure peace of mind, only the opportunity for solitude, which is perhaps as valuable as peace of mind, but not the same.
Fabre d'Olivet, in The Hermeneutic Interpretation of the Origin of the Social State of Man, contended that: "Only in the heat of battle did the ancient Celts, besieged on all sides by demons, find a sort of repose."
I guess I've met a lot of the ancient Celts' descendants. Maybe I attract them. Or they attract me. Or they're everywhere.
What happened this morning was neither unusual nor particularly tragic. Yet it soured my spirit, dimmed my hope, and lured demons out of the labyrinth. Then, for hours, while I tried to write, every phrase I put together struck me as verbal slop. And every thought felt like trivia.
I wish I had a point to make, some pertinent or provocative advice. But I'm stumped. Except I'm remembering a time when peace of mind had fled far away, and a book by Thomas Merton helped. It's called No Man Is An Island, Thoughts on Solitude. I'll read it again and report.
Reflections on writing, reading and inspiration.
Ken Kuhlken has won a bunch of awards for his dozens of stories and seven novels, the latest of which is THE BIGGEST LIAR IN LOS ANGELES. He is president of Perelandra College.
Zoe and Spider
2 comments:
I've written about this odd phenomena relative to my work on my page. Put me in the Celt column. For more than 20 years, I have done almost all my salvageable writing in noisy, active, almost chaotic public places, usually a cafe. During that time I have had a series of pretty nice office spaces in our various apartments and houses; nicely-decorated, private, as quiet as I choose spaces. They are mostly storage rooms for books and office tools; I rarely write anything of consequence in any of them.
A retreat would bore me up the wall, sort of like going to the beach. Have you ever noticed how little there is to do at the beach? Blue water and a blue sky; buggy sand, rocks, broken glass, sweat, burned skin ... . When we have a holiday, we always go to cities and take an apartment in the heart of it, and soon locate a good cafe, and more or less go back to work in a new and interesting place.
Uh oh. You are going to say that I just wrote in to disagree with you again. But maybe being a nemesis is my role in your world?
What happened this morning? How cryptic!
Don,
You can be my nemisis, keep me on my toes. I enjoy your responses, no matter how argumentative.
About the peace of mind thing, I too can write well in cafes etc, but only if I enter the place in a certain state of mind.
I'm thinking about the idea of finding peace of mind through internal solitude.
When I have any cogent thoughts on the subject I'll post them, and you can feel not only free but invited to disagree.
Your amigo, Ken
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