the sacred answer

Cherry blossoms across the road. Photo taken 4/20/06.


Andrea's May 1 blog entry is quite inspiring. In it she describes a game she plays in which she meditates on a question about something which she really needs divine guidance on, and then she opens a dictionary for the answer. It's a takeoff on something people for centuries have done with the Bible. In this wonderful entry Andrea explains how this very method led her to work for the famous and eternally delightful Sark. (Who, btw, is NOT the blond bloke in Alias.)

So I said why not. It's 6:29 in the evening. I can either try this or watch a Will and Grace rerun.

Here was my question to the dictionary: "What am I supposed to do with my writing, Mother God?" (Mother God being my personal name for the Divinity. I refuse to acknowledge the Lord as just male.)

With my eyes closed, I touched the cover of my Webster's 10th edition (aka the definitive source for all copy editors and proofreaders). I thanked the book for whatever answer it was about to give me. Do I publish or perish? Was it a total waste that I quit my job for it? Do I have any talent? What am I supposed to do with all that I've produced, most of which have never seen the light of day? What am I supposed to do with all this intention, this impractical dedication, this belief in something I can't fully justify?

With eyes still closed I opened the book. I felt around for what my intuition was telling me. Go to the left page or the right page? My instinct said right. Go to the inner edge or the outer edge of the page? Inner edge, said the feeling. Somewhere in the middle of the page.

My forefinger landed on an area. I opened my eyes.

The word was "railroad." My heart sank. My immediate thought was its negative usage: To railroad somebody. "My manager railroaded me," "If you want to get rid of that employee, you should just railroad them," etc. I thought, what was I supposed to do, railroad my writing? (i.e., junk it, trash it. Obliterate it.)

Then I thought, maybe I'm supposed to put the pieces together, like locomotive cars. So I began reading, envisioning my writing to be like a road. You know, a railroad.

And that was when the Angel smacked me upside the head. Stubborn, stubborn child, someone seemed to be saying. Look. Look at the page.

For my finger was pointing at railroad as a verb, not the noun. The verb railroad has 3 varying definitions. And where my fingernail was pointing, in fact even underlining, was this definition: "1 b: to push through hastily or without due consideration."

An earthquake could have happened right then and there, with thunder rolling, the skies darkening, and I wouldn't be one bit surprised.

For that was when I understood. Don't mess around anymore, the Universe said. Stop doubting. Stop f--ing around. Do it, get it done. This is your job. It is not your place to bog things down with worry.

Just push your writing through hastily, and without due consideration.