Don’t let go of the thread

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
Things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
Or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

-William Stafford

Trust is a requirement for living. If I didn’t trust in the ability of my mind and body to function according to basic laws, then I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep at night. I’d worry, will I breathe while I’m sleeping? Will my heart continue to beat? Will I wake up in the morning?

To trust is to have a firm belief in the reliability of something, and so trust goes along with having a sense of safety. I need to be able to rely on a certain level of physical safety in order to live in a balanced way. Even though the evidence doesn’t support the hypothesis that life is safe, because anything can happen, and something will eventually destroy us, still, I have to believe it’s safe to live.

I have to trust that there is a way forward—and that it is safe to keep moving into the future, come what may. And so I continue to live and breathe as long as my body supports me, and when it doesn’t anymore, I will trust that death, too, is part of a greater plan, call it what you will—God, for instance, Enlightened Mind, or Nature.

Just as I need to have a fundamental trust in a power I don’t fully understand that keeps me breathing and moving, I also have to trust that my desire to write, to create something out of a source that dwells within me, is worthwhile. Just as I must feed my body with food and rest, so I must feed my psyche with the action it requests. And this action is putting words down, expressing meaning to the best of my ability.

I have to follow the thread of my creative impulses. These impulses seem like signals or signs along a path that I must follow.

Of course writing is not as crucial as eating. I suffer more if I don’t eat than if I don’t write. If I starve, I die. But I also suffer when I neglect what my psyche desires. I can starve my psyche and still live, but I pay a high price. I feel despair, a lack of joy, a sense of disconnection from myself and from life itself, a damning of thoughts and emotions.

But how do I continue to write, to make time for creative work, even in the midst of the pressing demands that life makes?

How much time should I make for my creative work, even if I have a lot of other “practical” things to do. Can I make it a regular habit? A repeated course of action? Can I allow it to have that kind of importance?

Sometimes it just seems too hard. There are so many good reasons not to persist. I’m too busy, it’s too noisy, maybe I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going. It’s not perfect.

Still, I write. It’s something I have to do.

I think we have to hold onto the sense of meaning and purpose we find when we do what fulfills us, even when we don’t know how to describe it or justify it to others, or even to ourselves.

At difficult times we may simply have to mechanically put words on paper, brush paint on canvas, write notes on sheet music, or move our bodies through space in an improvised dance. If we keep at it long enough, though, something will happen. We will find a hook, an idea, an insight that will lead us forward into a longer piece of writing, a new kind of painting, or music, or dance. Something that feels good or real or meaningful will occur: a gut reaction, a hunch, an intuition, an “aha” moment.

This kind of experience can’t be verified with scientific proof. But it can be felt by every person who ever persisted in his or her art, even when there was little time, when projects went unfinished, when others criticized.

It all comes down to faith. What is faith? To have faith is to believe in something based more on a kind of spiritual apprehension than on proof. And what is spiritual apprehension? It is the perception of something unseen, unheard, yet felt. It’s holding onto that tenuous, fine, often elusive filament, no matter what. Threading our way cautiously, yet bravely, through twists and turns and dark, narrow alleyways.

I need to trust my own feelings, to have faith in my own desires, even if my work ends in failure. As the writer Samuel Beckett said: “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

After all, what is the end point of life? In the end, the body fails, but trust remains. We trust despite our fears and sense of futility. Because trust is the only way to live, and to create.

So I hold onto that thread Stafford wrote of, and I don’t let go.