Writing as a Sacred Practice

September 10 - 17, 2024

I started this post on Monday morning, September 16th, the day before the Harvest Moon. I attended an online freewriting and sharing group led by Nancy Kilgore though Burlington Writers Workshop, which I just discovered and joined. Synchronistically, the class turns out to be a perfect fit.

I have returned to writing, not in the ways I wrote earlier in my life, not the teenage diary entries suffering over prettiness or boys, not the long, soul-searching essays questioning life’s purpose and meaning, not the magazine articles I wrote profiling artists, not the corporate marketing and non-profit development newsletters and fund-raising appeals I wrote, or even blog posts about process, art theory or practice.

My return to writing is driven, in part, by both hope and despair. I hold hope high in esteem, because I believe we create our lives by choosing the lenses through which we view the world. Division and destruction can challenge my hopeful beliefs about humanity and our future. But even at those times I can also see the beauty of human compassion and loving-kindness through all the turmoil.

As despair began creeping in with the 2016 elections, then multiplied and magnified with mass shootings, extremism and a global pandemic, I made the choice to withdraw from the world. The whole culture felt toxic and frantic and apocalyptic.

I did find some peace through nature and creating in my isolation, but I am a person who has a lot of curiosity and a deep need to explore the world and challenge myself. That brought me back to the idea of writing. I wanted to write again but I needed a new perspective on it to create a foundation I could invest in with whole-heartedness and genuine enthusiasm.

In the Monday morning writing group I just attended, we sat in silent meditation and the words “a sacred writing practice” popped into my mind. I pay attention when words pop into my head. I’ve learned, as a creative, they are often messages from my inner wisdom and merit careful attention.

Of course, my mind immediately leapt in and began asking, what actually is sacred writing?  Is it only about conventional religions and their tenets?

I contemplated the concept of “sacred” and how much I respond to the word on a feeling level. I was tempted to look up the definition in a dictionary, but then I realized the answer to that question is not what a dictionary or any "authority" says but rather, what do I say? What is sacred to me? If I choose those things and write about them, then is that not a sacred practice?

So what in my current life is sacred? I keep an altar in my studio that I change with the seasons, where I light candles and set intentions and reflect with gratitude on the many blessings that fill my life. I can write about that.

I have a growing passion for native plants and am creating a large pollinator garden on our property; by doing this, I join the growing movement of humans who want to be stewards to rather than destroyers of the natural world. I picture my garden forming a chain with others across this whole region and creating a large pollinator pathway where native plants, trees and bushes provide healthy habitats for these vital small beings. I can write about that.

I love learning and reading books; they provide insights and new perspectives and teachings. I don’t often read books cover to cover. When I have ideas or questions, I go to my book shelves and frequently find the perfect chapter or page that offers options and resources. I often build small piles of these books around me. When the piles grow large or unwieldy or I don’t need them anymore, I put them back on the bookshelves, and let the process begin again.

Happily I am also surrounded by objects that I call sacred. They are often simple, like the faded woven reed bowl I fill with found feathers. I purchased the now-faded bowl in New Mexico decades ago when my family was all alive and living there, from a large imported Mexican goods store that I loved to visit, filled with bright textiles and baskets.

Seeing the sacred in the ordinary and every-day is the direction my life seems to be taking.

As I move around our home and my studio space, I see items, some arranged intentionally and some by chance. They all take on a new importance when I pause and really take time to see and consider them. In this creative life I choose to live, they are touchstones, rich with memory and my own appreciation for their meaning. When I acknowledge them, my sense of rootedness in place, in time, in my own changing body feels supported and uplifted by their presence.

Perhaps it is not just writing that is sacred, perhaps my whole life, when I allow it, is as well. My whole experience and history as a human are unique and sacred and I can carry that with me, draw on it for strength and sustenance when needed and share it with others as a gentle reminder of our connectedness.