
individuation
after reading emerson's self-reliance:
There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till.
and
Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.
then turning to his essay, the poet:
The breadth of the problem is great, for the poet is representative. He stands among partial men for the complete man, and apprises us not of his wealth, but of the common-wealth. The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more. Nature enhances her beauty, to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries, by truth and by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits, that they will draw all men sooner or later. For all men live by truth, and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.
furthermore:
The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage, but, as they act and think primarily, so he writes primarily what will and must be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet, in respect to him, secondaries and servants; as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building materials to an architect.
For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings, and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word, or a verse, and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations.
i find myself strangely comforted in my isolation. strangely assuaged in my singular grief. that i cannot find words to bridge the gap of understanding between my fellow prose-writers and myself. i cannot fashion a conveyance out of ideas and thoughts, but i must sit, still and silent, upon my little island being faithful to God at work in me.
i write this to encourage you who might feel similarly isolated in your calling. at writers' conferences i go and wonder why i'm there. sure i'm a writer, but not in the way or for the reasons many are. i don't hold the craft in awe, i detest networking, i avoid chitchat (after spending time recently with a claustrophobic, i realized, i'm chatophobic). i merely try to be faithful to the whispers i hear. the echoes of poetry written before time.
i cannot hear these things when the voices of men ring in my ears. i am not so quick of wit as many who can banter and this near-real-time ongoing conversation taxes me to the limit more often than not.
i've spent a bit of time with fromm, and his thoughts on love are:
only non-conformists can love, for it takes a person not an automaton to truly love.
yes, i feel it rise up in my soul. then his mention of individuation spawned my certainty about the need for writers, all writers, poets, be they christian, llamas in cars (thanks dave), or whatever, to separate from the herd. to find himself in the Will of God. and no place other.
i look too, don't get me wrong. the looking is human. but i've realized, what i'm looking for cannot be found. only sought. (or as augustine says, when God is found, he must be sought. just this morning i read henri nouwen say it this way: "God must be sought, but we cannot find God. We can only be found by him." yes. that is it.)
sharing writing tips is helpful. writers' guidelines are good. workshops are great. but honing one's craft before the Master, that is where it is at. and if He sees fit to lift you up, praise Him. otherwise, rest in your calling and be faithful to it. even when it seems you are most alone. for i assure you, you are not. of that, i am certain.
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