Muse – Cynthia Trenshaw

Last Sunday I was asked to give a talk at our local Unitarian Universalist Church. The title was, “A Writer, Being Written.”

This was the first time I’d spoken in public about my relationship with the holy Wisdom that I’ve searched for and (mostly) welcomed since I was a child.

When this Wisdom shows up (the timing totally out of my control), I’ve been inspired, annoyed, and/or encouraged at watersheds and crossroads throughout my life.

In my talk I described these encounters as an Invisible Hand: it has nudged me in one direction when I might have chosen another; it has caused me to open my mouth to speak to a stranger that I would otherwise not choose to meet. Also I described this Wisdom as a Silent Voice, advising me, suggesting (or demanding) that I reconsider a decision, and helping me through complicated scenarios. Since I am a writer, I recognize these actions as those of an editor, and decided to call this Wisdom my “Sacred Editor.”

Unlike the writing and editing of poetry, the mystical editing of my life doesn’t get to be pondered and polished, rewritten and improved with time. Either I pay attention to the Editor in the moment, or not – there is no going back to change those watershed points.

The writing of poetry is mystical in a different way. Words are under the jurisdiction of The Muse – She’s that aspect of the Sacred Editor that most often inhabits my belly, where the stories of my life’s experiences are transformed into poetry. The process follows a fairly predictable sequence: The Muse and I work together in the playground of words to make my poems the best we know how to do. When we can’t think of any way to make a poem better, then I send it off to Marian, my favorite copyeditor.

When the copyeditor’s notes come back, The Muse steps in again, now looking over my shoulder as I consider Marian’s comments. “Hmmm,” the Muse says, “yes, I think she’s right about that line break . . . No, I like that word – the way the single syllable changes the rhythm, makes the reader pause – I think you should keep that one the way we wrote it.”

And then, after agonizing over every word and syllable and punctuation mark for another day or week, out the poem goes into the world to sit for another month, or several, on a literary journal editor’s desk, hoping and whining for attention. That editor may ask to publish the poem (hooray!); or, more likely, they’ll send a thanks-but-no-thanks form letter to add to my burgeoning file; or, I’ll never hear from them at all. Then the Muse will sympathetically kiss the top of my head, and I’ll take heart, and send the poem out to yet another journal.

This week I’m taking some retreat time with my friend Corrine, at her lovely home overlooking Saratoga Passage on the east side of Whidbey Island. This retreat blends the two ways the Sacred Editor works in my life: writing, and being written. I’m loving it. First, I’m submitting to the Sacred Editor by taking time away, listening, giving Him opportunities to tweak ideas and intentions that will influence my life’s future. And second, I’m checking in with The Muse in that place in my gut where She stirs up the juices of memories, and energizes my words. For nearly a week I get to write, to just show up for meals that my hostess prepares, to have deep conversations with her about Life and the Sacred, to laugh and play with words, and to read poetry drafts to my dear appreciative friend.

Tomorrow I’ll pack up my pajamas and my computer and my poetry sketchbooks. I’ll haul them all back home, intending to keep working nearly every day on writing and being written. But at home is never quite the same as when I’m away, and never quite so successful as when I’m on a retreat purposefully listening to both the Sacred Editor and the Muse.

Photo by gudmd.haralds

In January I gave myself a wondrous gift: a week away to do nothing but write poetry. “Nothing but write” means, to me, no TV, no phone, no clock, no schedule. Just me, simple food, tea, some sacramental chocolate, and whichever Muse shows up.

What I hadn’t anticipated about my week away was that, in the middle of the first draft of my first poem, my computer would freeze up and die – wouldn’t let me reboot or even shut it down.

I took this to be a direct challenge from the Muse, about how committed I was to my writing. I rose to her challenge by hauling in tablets of paper, a handful of pens, and my Roget’s Thesaurus. I was going to spend this writing week doing things the old-fashioned way.

I had forgotten how much I love a real Roget’s Thesaurus. I’d gotten used to relying on the thesaurus built into my Mac, or the one on Thesaurus.com. But both of those are really just synonym collections, not the real thesaurus deal. And for someone who loves words, the Roget’s Thesaurus has no substitute.

One scans a list of synonyms, but one dives into the pages of Roget’s. For instance: I had placed the word “interesting” in brackets into a poem to indicate that it was just a placeholder for a better word that I’d find later.

(“Interesting” is a lazy word. If someone asks me how last night’s disastrous meeting went, and I don’t want to lie, nor do I want to give them the blow-by-blow, I answer, “It was interesting.” “Interesting” hides more than it reveals.)

So I looked up “interesting” at the back section of the thesaurus, and found the number 617.5 beside it. (That refers not to a page number, but to a place in the main part of the book.) At section 617.5 Allurement I found a whole collection of substitute words, clustered in gradations of meaning. One of those words was “delightful” along with the recommendation that I search further at 829.8 Pleasureableness.

When I got to 829.8, I noticed that 830 Painfulness followed, then 831 Content and then Discontent, Regret, Relief, Aggravation, Cheerfulness, Sadness, each with their own full baskets of synonyms. Before 829.8 Pleasureableness there were 828 Pain and 827 Pleasure, and Excitability and other nuances.

Now what was it that I was looking for when I started? Uh-oh! I’d forgotten one of the cardinal rules of using a thesaurus: keep track of the sequence. Like Hansel dropping breadcrumbs on the path to the witch’s house, you must keep track of where you’ve been because you’re not necessarily sure of where you’re going. This keeping track of the path is something my computer doesn’t do for me, but with pen and paper it’s easy to make marginal notes – so long as I remember to do it!

There is nothing quite so satisfying as finding exactly the right word for a poem – one with the precise meaning, one with the right number of syllables, one beginning with the sound needed to complete a string of alliteration. That perfect word may have arrived from a totally unexpected corner of Wordland, but suddenly there it is, and the poet places it with a smug “thunk” just where it belongs.

I came home from my poetry week with abundance from the Muse: 23 drafts of new poems, waiting to be transcribed into digital form. My computer tech has repaired my laptop, and all is well in my little world of technology.

But rather than returning my analog Roget’s Thesaurus to the bookshelf, I’ve decided to keep it close at hand, to inspire, to inform and, sometimes, simply to lure me away to play for a while in the Land of Words.

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A Writer, Being Written

The Muse, the Thesaurus, and Me