When the muse moves

On the holy disruption of Pentecost & the disquieting work of change

Spring brings a breath of Pentecost. 

Here in the Midwest we grow winter-weary of gray slush and ice-caked snow, so we fling wide the windows the first chance we get. For a few glorious weeks, until temps steam to jungle-humid, we live in homeostasis with the outdoors. Windows open, gentle breezes, good sleeping weather, at peace with nature once again.

And then a wild wind rushes through the room, scattering papers to the floor and slamming doors loud enough to startle a scream.

We remember, hearts pounding: that’s right. Nature can never be tamed. 

The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. (John 3:8)

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What do you do when rhythms change?

In case you haven’t noticed—(half of you have and half of you haven’t)—I have not written here as much lately, not as regularly as I did during the terrible months of last year, when words were the life preserver I clung to, kicking and gasping to stay afloat.

People would press their hands to my forearm and say how are you still writing or how do you write so much. I had nothing but sheepish shrugs to their bafflement. The writing was not driven by vainglory, no foolish desire for productivity—quite the opposite. Instead, as I lay in bed for months and months, all I could do was lean the laptop on its side and tap the words that came to mind, because they were saving me, too. 

Every week I would assure myself: you do not have to write another essay. No one is expecting anything from you. But by the end of each week, another idea would emerge: an egg ready to crack, a tiny beak pecking at the hard shell, desperate to breathe.

So I kept going, as long as it gave me life. 

Then in March, on the cusp of the anniversary of my cancer diagnosis, something happened. Rather, everything changed. Like a spigot turned off—no, like a hose unkinked and flowing free in a new direction, rushing and sputtering and flooding cool water over another part of the garden, a hardened arid corner, hungry for rain. 

I pivoted because I could feel the change, aching like a gathering storm in my knowing bones. Set down the laptop, picked up pen and paper, started writing a new story. Told no one what I was doing, not for a while. The burgeoning, quickening work of trying something new is best done in silence and secret, the holy dark of womb.

But when you are gestating anew—metaphor not announcement, that stage is permanently retired!—you are compelled by your own physiology to give every ounce of energy to the microscopic spark within you. If you try anything else, trying to do as you did before, clinging fast to what was, you will run yourself ragged, wearying from work that is no longer yours. 

You surrender to the Spirit, or you pay the price. 

(Sorry to be stark, but this is true.)

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Artists often speak of the muse. The muse arrives or the muse departs; the work is wholly dependent on its inspiration. Historically, the word springs to mind the Greek goddesses, the nine sisters who graced the creation of poetry, song, dance, and myth. In modern uses, Merriam-Webster offers the lovely turn of phrase “a guiding genius.”

But personally, I never related to the idea of a muse—until I started understanding my own craft as art. Until I learned about the science of flow. Until I realized that divine inspiration wasn’t sequestered to scribes of Scripture, that the Spirit is moving in each of our lives. 

Inspiration isn’t everything, as any artist will assure you. We have to show up to the work, put in sweat equity. We sacrifice and sleep less and worry if we’re doing it right; all this is wrapped up in the all-too-human process of whatever we undertake.

But when there is a quiet current humming below your work, whether the job that gets you up in the morning or the calling that nudges you awake even earlier, there is such wonder and relief to feel the buzz of goodness underneath you—not all the time, not every day, but a steady source you can tap into when you need to remember.

You are doing the work. You are on the path. No need to care if everyone (anyone) else agrees.

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For the ordinary most-of-us, the Spirit will never whip up tongues of fire or bestow new language proficiencies. The Holy One labors in quiet, preferring to whisper or nudge or elbow us gently in the side. What we notice, what keeps us up at night, what we can’t stop dreaming about—this subtler way is often how God gets our attention. 

And the Spirit shifts. Two or three years ago, I was deep into the work of Catechesis of the Good Shepherd. I couldn’t get enough: read every book I could find, took formation courses, made materials, started offering this Montessori method to my own children, began conversations to bring the work to my own parish. 

Then I got cancer. Haven’t done a blessed thing with CGS in over a year. Don’t feel the same fire anymore. Was it a waste? A distraction? A diversion from my true callings? Hardly. I had the deep sense from the beginning that I was doing this for my grandchildren, for my community, for young ones yet to be born. Good work is often slow labor, generational endeavors, holy kairos time outside the usual chronos.

The Spirit that led me there is leading me still. Sometimes we have to turn from one good work to another. My task is to follow, not yet to figure out how it all fits together.

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Change is difficult. Creative work is demanding. Figuring out what to do after the Spirit rushes through the room and blows everything off the walls is a dizzying and daunting task. 

But if we do not follow where that Spirit leads, we will waste our time, spin our wheels, bang our heads against the desk. I can tell you this because I have done it, time and time again.

Yet equally true is the power of obedience, of flexibility, of just-enough-softness in your stance to weather life’s bumps. Each time I took a child on public transportation for the first time, I taught them the lesson I learned the hard way: when standing on bus or train or tram, you have to bend your knees just a bit. If you stay rigid and locked upright, you’re more likely to fall or jostle your fellow passengers. But try to bend a little, and watch how your body absorbs the jolts. Their faces transformed as they tried the magic.

Let the body soften. Let the plans evolve. Let your grip loosen.

Open windows are what let the wind rush inside.

What happened the day after Pentecost? What was it like to wake the morning after, to remember the wind and fire, to taste new words still pouring off your tongue? The disciples must have had plans they’d made for the day-after. Don’t we all? But they shoved them aside, drawn to follow a wider, wilder way. Equal parts terror and hope.

So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit. (John 3:8)

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[tl; dr: I’m writing a new book. Might write in different rhythms here. Your support and prayers are literally making this work possible. Thank you.]