The Art Must Win

 It’s a kind of madness. My writing is. Could be your garden, your watercolors, the woodworking. We temper it. There’s the Poes, the Van Goghs, the Pressfields that don’t. Pressfield wrote out of a Chevy Van forsaking family. What to do with the gnawing?

Close friends and spouses eye us dubiously. Still, they lend support. Greater success, greater support—till you go over the edge. I started experimenting in high school. Constantly scribbling. Journaling to let the ideas out of my head. To put something down for when fame—and death—found me. Notes to girlfriends and poems about waterbeds (“Lie with me,” it whispers and it sounds funny for you see, it talks without springs.). For an “A” grade I wrote a poem a la Alice in Wonderland about an onion ring. Notebooks full, typewriter pounding then word processer purring.

That girl in the sundress, that man in the pink shirt with the stutter—would they fit into a story? All the while the wheels spin. Like the Roald Dahl poem made famous by Gene Wilder, “Yes, the danger must be growing, for the rowers keep on rowing, and they're certainly not showing, any signs that they are slowing.” If drugs or drinking enhances the writing; is it worth the try? You’ve never gone down that road? Never wanted to abandon it all to bourbon and writing? The monomania grips you. The question is what to do with it?

The art must win. Some suppress, some bury it, deny it, kill it. Never flourishing as artist, never seeing the great gift they can provide their audience. We don’t tamp the art down. In full (‘normal’) lives let the madness motivate us to discipline that the art might shine forth. In the words of Madeleine L’Engle, “A life lived in chaos is an impossibility for the artist…. It is a joy to be allowed to be the servant of the work.”

Photo by Jené Stephaniuk on Unsplash

Heavens' Honing; Heroes and Outliers

                                                           Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

"And through everything we've learned, We've finally come to terms,

We are the outsiders."

All my heroes are outliers. The Cambridge definition of outlier is “a person, thing, or fact that is very different from other people…” That could mean a whole hell of a lot of things. To help clarify here’s a shallow skim-of-a surface list of mine. They are: A poet to the Yukon, a photographer of the Sierra, a martyred missionary to the Waorani, a writer of a nonfiction narrative about the fields near Roanoke, and a Parkinsons afflicted writer grappling the problem of pain. Prophets pointing us to a ‘better country,’ while showing us present beauty. Writers whom, in the words of Annie Dillard, wrestle with this question,  “Why would an omnipotent, omniscient and merciful God allow natural evil to happen?”

Perhaps I am mistaken in my choice of heroes. My failures are not a result. Nor my triumphs. My decisions may have cost me what the Jones’ have and I don’t. In a world of tangibles it’s hard to see the value of intangibles. To quote Madeleine L’Engle, “What would have happened to Mary (and all the rest of us) if she had said no to the angel?”

To anyone choosing a hero I would give this advice; wait. Wait until you are in your forties or fifties so as not to choose the wrong one. What if you were to choose as your hero one who enjoys freedom? Then one day sitting at breakfast in Dallas with a specialized accountant for the rich, and an executive for BHP among others you realize your choices, fate and living quarters don’t compare well to others. Those insecurities rush in. Perhaps you should have chosen that money-making, fitting-in archetype instead.

Having heroes is like the back surgery I just had done. The world pushes hard against our spine. We are unaligned. Realignment is sometimes as easy as a crack from a chiro. Picking up an essay from a role-model keeps us on track. Other times gotta hideaway with that Spofity playlist, some journals and tattered tomes.

Choosing a hero is easier than becoming one. Maybe we choose them according to our souls wiring. Do the chords resonate because you’re attuned to them? It’s not always comfortable being an outlier. If that’s who I am then that’s who I should be shaped to be. Heaven and heroes honing me to be my best.