Yes, this, everyday I show up and sometimes I figure it out and sometimes no matter how quietly I sit, I don't see the way through, and on those days, when I'm done, I go for a walk and then it hits me.
May 10, 2023Liked by Joshua Doležal, <Mary L. Tabor>
I'm glad you reposted this, Josh, as I had wanted to read it more carefully when it first appeared and didn't get back to it. Two things are true at once, for me: I don't believe in epiphanies as you describe them, and, at the same time, more and more, I have them all day long. The essence of the experience might be captured in the "looking away" because what's happening for me is that I am centering and allowing the insights to happen. Allowing is key. I am not making things happen, nor are things strictly speaking happening to me. It's more of a collaboration with presence. Quakers call this the process of discernment, which I am now inspired to write about on my soon-to-launch newsletter, Convinced (about my experiences of a member of the Religious Society of Friends).
Epiphanies feel like "aha" moments, but they also feel like the result of a process (often a very long one) that's simply hidden from my conscious mind. Call that God if you like, but I suspect God was simply waiting for me to get out of my own way. I'm working-working-working on a solution, but it is happening in the parts of my mind that I don't have control over (and it doesn't feel like work). The more I trust this process and the less I resist by trying to make something happen, the more easily an "epiphany" arises. Lately, I have been experimenting with just letting this discernment process happen all day long, when the stakes are much lower. Other religious practices call this continuous revelation. Then, somehow, it feels just as much an epiphany to realize what I want for lunch as it does to discern the solution to a short story whose ending has been eluding me.
In short, I, too, love the "aha" moments, especially when they feel like sudden bursts of insight. I think of the complex architecture of a short story, the elements I hope to include, the feelings I want my reader to experience, etc. There's so much I want to weave into a piece (and so much to cut, once I do!) But--with writing, as with the rest of life--I also believe that it was really only my resistance to all that the present moment has to offer that made the wait so long in the first place.
That’s the approach I take when looking for morels. It’s like I can’t recognize the pattern looking straight on, or as though I have to catch them unawares.
Working in the hard sciences, I don’t recall many epiphanies occurring around me, and if I had any myself, I’ve long since forgotten them. Success there was usually predicated on sheer doggedness — that is, there were no shortcuts.
I usually associate this type of sudden creation with the arts, particularly music. Paul McCartney described waking up with the tune of “Yesterday” in his head, thinking he must have heard it somewhere. And Bob Dylan has spoken in religious language about moments that changed his life, for example, hearing Lead Belly’s “Cotton Fields” for the first time at age 18: “It was like somebody laid hands on me.”
It would seem to me it’s fairly obvious that epiphanies only occur when the ground has been prepared. Both McCartney and Dylan were immersed in musical creation. A musical solution won’t occur to the non-musician or to someone who only listens to music. A writing solution depends on a lot of previous writing; it may occur while you’re doing something else, but probably not if you haven’t been writing much lately.
Yes, this, everyday I show up and sometimes I figure it out and sometimes no matter how quietly I sit, I don't see the way through, and on those days, when I'm done, I go for a walk and then it hits me.
Beautifully explained!
I'm glad you reposted this, Josh, as I had wanted to read it more carefully when it first appeared and didn't get back to it. Two things are true at once, for me: I don't believe in epiphanies as you describe them, and, at the same time, more and more, I have them all day long. The essence of the experience might be captured in the "looking away" because what's happening for me is that I am centering and allowing the insights to happen. Allowing is key. I am not making things happen, nor are things strictly speaking happening to me. It's more of a collaboration with presence. Quakers call this the process of discernment, which I am now inspired to write about on my soon-to-launch newsletter, Convinced (about my experiences of a member of the Religious Society of Friends).
Epiphanies feel like "aha" moments, but they also feel like the result of a process (often a very long one) that's simply hidden from my conscious mind. Call that God if you like, but I suspect God was simply waiting for me to get out of my own way. I'm working-working-working on a solution, but it is happening in the parts of my mind that I don't have control over (and it doesn't feel like work). The more I trust this process and the less I resist by trying to make something happen, the more easily an "epiphany" arises. Lately, I have been experimenting with just letting this discernment process happen all day long, when the stakes are much lower. Other religious practices call this continuous revelation. Then, somehow, it feels just as much an epiphany to realize what I want for lunch as it does to discern the solution to a short story whose ending has been eluding me.
In short, I, too, love the "aha" moments, especially when they feel like sudden bursts of insight. I think of the complex architecture of a short story, the elements I hope to include, the feelings I want my reader to experience, etc. There's so much I want to weave into a piece (and so much to cut, once I do!) But--with writing, as with the rest of life--I also believe that it was really only my resistance to all that the present moment has to offer that made the wait so long in the first place.
Jared Carter has a poem that captures the “looking away” approach to inspiration you describe:
https://poets.org/poem/after-rain
That’s the approach I take when looking for morels. It’s like I can’t recognize the pattern looking straight on, or as though I have to catch them unawares.
Working in the hard sciences, I don’t recall many epiphanies occurring around me, and if I had any myself, I’ve long since forgotten them. Success there was usually predicated on sheer doggedness — that is, there were no shortcuts.
I usually associate this type of sudden creation with the arts, particularly music. Paul McCartney described waking up with the tune of “Yesterday” in his head, thinking he must have heard it somewhere. And Bob Dylan has spoken in religious language about moments that changed his life, for example, hearing Lead Belly’s “Cotton Fields” for the first time at age 18: “It was like somebody laid hands on me.”
It would seem to me it’s fairly obvious that epiphanies only occur when the ground has been prepared. Both McCartney and Dylan were immersed in musical creation. A musical solution won’t occur to the non-musician or to someone who only listens to music. A writing solution depends on a lot of previous writing; it may occur while you’re doing something else, but probably not if you haven’t been writing much lately.