The truth is, I am one of those creative spirits. In temperment I am, as Wordsworth wrote, a poet:
And it would content me to yield up
those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts
of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!
The Poet, gentle creature as he is,
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;
His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
Though no distress be near him but his own
Unmanagable thoughts: his mind, best pleased
While she as duteous as the mother dove
sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on
That drive her as in trouble through the groves:
With me is now such passion, to be blamed
No otherwise than as it last too long.
Something very human, very basic to my nature, those "unruly times" of "unmanagable thoughts" sometimes overwhelm this feeling soul:
Humility and modest awe, themselves
betray me, serving often for a cloak
to a more subtle selfishness; that now
Locks every function up in blank reserve,
Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye
That with intrusive restlessness beats off
simplicity and self-presented truth.
Ah! better far than this, to stray about
Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,
And ask no record of the hours, resigned
To vacant musing, unreproved neglect
Of all things, and deliberate holiday.
far better never to have heard the name
Of zeal and just ambition, than to live
Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour
Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,
Then feels immediately some hollow thought
Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.
This is my lot: for either still I find
Some imperfection in the chosen theme,
Or see of absolute accomplishment
Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,
That I recoil and droop, and seek repose
In listlessness from vain perplexity,
Unprofitably traveling toward the grave,
Like a false steward who hath much received
And renders nothing back.
~~
from
The Prelude
William Wordsworth
My own words seem really pale in comparison to this great poet but the sentiments are the same. Don't we all have our hang ups? And I feel very akin to William Wordsworth in this sense. Feeling overwhelmed and out of control, perplexed and without a doubt, self-absorbed...but helpless to pull oneself out of this mire... I know what that is all about.
One day this weekend our family took a drive to a neighboring city for the evening. Except for occasions such as this, when we are out driving in the open by farms and fields, I just don't see the horizon much anymore. On our way, we were greeted by a rainbow in the broad fluffy-clouded sky. My breath was stolen away. A promise. Driving home later, the sunset was brilliant. At that moment, I couldn't help but think God was trying to say something, trying to break through my "vain perplexity," my "subtle selfishness" that focuses on "some imperfection..." and finding, "much wanting, so much wanting, in myself." It's that faint whisper of a shout, that gentle yet persistent yank at the heart. For me it's always been colors in the sky that carried the voice of the Creater to this little creature: "I love you." And that is just what I need to know. Value because of One who finds me valuable.
I have much more to say on this topic but that is enough for now. Good night!
