I have a gardenia bush behind my house. When it blooms, delicate white blossoms stun me with their beauty and scent. Yesterday I saw a few remaining white blossoms scattered on the bright green grass like discarded tissue paper. My heart fell, my chest filled with this dread; I forgot--again. I forgot to notice my mysteriours, glorious, beautiful life and world. I'd completely missed the blooming of my gardenia, overlooked a call to the splendor that comes so rarely from this plant. The world has so much to share with me, and yet I bury myself in busyness. And this is what I thought: Why do I forget what I've already learned through books, novels and writing? Since childhood I have approached my life as though it were a story. I always wonder what will happen next. I look for the plot line in my own life as I look for it in other's lives. This habit of considering life as an epic novel sprang from a childhood where I was a hopeless bookworm. While other girls whispered about their first kiss or planned their outfit for school, I read Gone With The Wind. I discovered that when I'm fully engaged in life or story, I notice everything: sight, sound, touch and taste. Oh, the potential joy in every moment when I am completely and utterly aware of my surroundings and my feelings. When all my senses are engaged--so am I. When I first considered writing more than a selfish past time, when I plunged with deep faith and naivety into my first journal so many years ago, I thought I was doing something of worth--meager though it might be. Instead I discovered that writing was the gift and teacher to me, not the other way around. As I began to see a more enriched life while writing, I noticed that my own life was more abundant when I let my writing life and "real" life affect one another. When I allowed the conclusions I made in my writing to run parallel and then cross into my ordinary days, I saw the lessons inherent in paying attention to detail. I keep a list of the valuable lessons writing has taught me, and one of the best is a reminder to fully notice life in its broken beauty and not skip over the hard parts. I believe I am a better writer when I pay attention to life with complete abandonment, with all my senses. A story becomes complete and authentic when the the person reading it really feels the story, when they are engaged in the emotions, sights, sounds and tastes of the character that struggles through life attempting to come out on the other side, to wholeness. The best writing allows me to feel what I write and write what I feel. Yet in real life, we have broken hearts, shattered dreams--we somehow know that it is is not the way life was meant to be. We were made for something more, something better. We have two choices now--to shut our hearts, harden our souls -- or experience all of life and live a story where we search for meaning, significance and contribution. Sometimes our story is a love story, other times a comedy, and sometimes even a tragedy. But we cannot become active in the story without engaging the senes and the heart. This is not easy--this "full living life" thing. Sometimes it is a bit easier to just make the to-do list, return the phone calls and emails, pick up the dry cleaning, pay the bills, fold the laundry and be thrilled to make it through another day. But what writing has taught me is this: that if I observe what is around me, if I take the time to be quiet and listen, feel and open my heart, I will see some broken pieces making a whole, hear a sweet whisper from God in nature and circumstances about my significance and about His love, and then discover that others are struggling alongside me. Writing becomes the teacher and yet I still forget the message. Maybe because I wrote today I won't forget to fully notice this beautiful life, and maybe you won't either.
