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Posted: January 23rd, 2007 at 12:53am By: Janet Conner
I talk to God and God answers. Now when most people say that, it's a fairly short route to the psychiatrist's office. But I don't mean that. God talks to me, all right, but not in that disheveled, mumbling-on-street-corners sort of way. (Whew!) God talks to me via words on the page. I write and God answers — in words.
I discovered this miracle — and believe me, it's a miracle — quite by accident. I was in the midst of a lollapalooza divorce, one that scared the dickens out of me and left me worrying sometimes if I'd live through the day.
When you go through this kind of trauma, an amazing thing happens: Everyone disappears. Right when you really need them, all those delightful friends, helpful colleagues and friendly neighbors disappear. And they don't leave a forwarding address. The truth is: They don't want to be a part of your pain. Maybe it hits too close to home, maybe they feel helpless to do anything about it, maybe they're afraid your problems are contagious. Whatever the reason, they bail out, they bail out fast, and they don't come back. Like it or not, you are on your own.
That's what happened to me. Overnight, I was alone with my problems. And I needed help. Oh, how I needed help. My husband was having regular rage attacks, and my family was certain he was going to hurt me. So, did I do anything? No. I sat and cried in the living room — with the phone off, so I couldn't hear his threats, and the blinds down, so he couldn't see me if he drove by.
Now, God works in mysterious ways. You remember that saying? My mother loved to say that. Whenever something ludicrous happened, I'd say, "OK, Mom, how could that possibly be God's doing?" And she'd say, "Well, dear, God works in mysterious ways." I always thought that was a copout.
Until the dog.
Harley, our Great Dane puppy, took things into his own hands — or rather, teeth. I was sitting in my usual morning position, sniffling and dabbing my eyes with Kleenex, when I realized Harley's head was no longer resting on the ottoman, looking up at me with that consummate Great Dane mix of devotion and sadness. "Harley," I called, "where are you?" I could hear him in the hallway. "Harley, come!" No Harley. I got up to find him. He was loping slowly toward me, struggling to carry something too heavy for his scrawny neck. "Whatcha got there, boy?" He tried to lift his head. I pulled his burden out of his mouth. It was my untouched copy of "The Artist's Way" — now decorated with ripped cover, teeth marks and Dane drool.
I had always wanted to do "The Artist's Way" (Julia Cameron, Jeremy P. Tarcher, 1992), but I had always been "too busy." Well, I wasn't busy anymore. I wiped it off, sat down and began to read. On Page 15, I stopped cold: "Anyone who faithfully writes morning pages will be led to a connection with a source of wisdom within. When I am stuck with a painful situation or problem that I don't think I know how to handle, I will go to the pages and ask for guidance."
Julia Cameron was talking to me! I needed wisdom, and I most certainly was stuck in a painful situation, and I sure didn't know to handle it. It was pretty clear that sitting and sobbing was not solving my problems. I hunted up a cheap black notebook and an old brown fountain pen. Julia said to write three morning pages. Well, it was morning, and at long last, I had all the time in the world to write.
But I didn't follow the book's directions. Something happened when I read that passage. My soul's needle, which had been careening madly around its compass for weeks, snapped to true north and picked up some silent subterranean instructions that guided me to write in a unique way.
"Dear God," I wrote at the top of the page. Why did I start that way? I have no idea. It just felt right. And then, I vented. Oh Lord, how I vented. I fussed and fumed at God. Are you paying any attention? Do you see what's happening here? Do you care? How are we going to live through this? How can I protect my baby? What am I going to do? Where are you? I didn't write the required three pages that morning; I wrote thirty. That was a clue that I had something to say and that journaling was helping me say it. After an hour and a half of furious full-speed-ahead writing, I didn't have any answers, but I did feel a little bit better, a little bit cleaner, a little bit lighter.
So, the next morning I did it again. And again. And again. And again. Day after day, I stabbed at the page in angry black ink. I told God every last little detail of every last little thing that was happening. What my husband did or threatened to do. How I canceled my son's birthday party when his father promised to crash it with a gun. What happened when he broke in. How it felt to protect my son with my body. What happened when we called the police the first time, the second, the third and the fourth. How the school insisted I drop my son off late and pick him up early to prevent scenes at school. How I moved from one coffee shop to another until it was time to pick him up. How I couldn't eat. How my son couldn't sleep. How he gnashed his teeth all night. How he crawled into my bed and would not leave. How we startled in the dark at every creak and crack. How he crawled onto my lap and rocked silently for 30 minutes before he would leave for visitation. It was all there in my cheap black journals.
After a while, I noticed something. Not the first day or the second, but one day, there it was: a little bit of wisdom on the page. Not the answer to my life's problems, but definitely guidance for the day's. Occasionally it was what to do or what not to do, but most of the time, it was something smaller, something subtler — but, perhaps something richer — how to shift my thinking.
The first time it happened, I stopped writing and stared at the page. Huh? That wasn't me. I didn't write that. I'd never even had that thought. But there it was. And I knew, somehow I just knew, that this was important. This was it. This was my salvation. So I followed that guidance. Like Hansel in "Hansel and Gretel," I didn't know where I was or where I was going, but I followed those precious crumbs of wisdom. Step by step, day by day, journal entry by journal entry, I inched forward.
Every morning I talked to God, and every morning God answered. Did God hear me? Yes, I'm quite certain. Did God answer? Yes, I have no doubt. God answered right where I couldn't mistake it — on the page.
(Next week: There's meditation — and then there's written meditation.)
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E., talks to God and God talks back. During her divorce, Janet discovered that writing directly to God delivered the daily guidance she needed — right there on the page. When her heart healed, she created "Spiritual Geography," the first and only spiritual-healing system that maps the total process into seven countries and provides practical tools that anyone can use to move through the map to Peace. Discover your location, interact with the map and order Spiritual Geography travel guides at Spiritual Geography. Janet is currently writing "Dear God: The Conversation That Changes Everything." In addition to divine dialogue, Janet welcomes human conversation at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© copyright 2007 by Janet Conner
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I talk to God and God answers. Now when most people say that, it's a fairly short route to the psychiatrist's office. But I don't mean that. God talks to me, all right, but not in that disheveled, mumbling-on-street-corners sort of way. (Whew!) God talks to me via words on the page. I write and God answers — in words.
I discovered this miracle — and believe me, it's a miracle — quite by accident. I was in the midst of a lollapalooza divorce, one that scared the dickens out of me and left me worrying sometimes if I'd live through the day.
When you go through this kind of trauma, an amazing thing happens: Everyone disappears. Right when you really need them, all those delightful friends, helpful colleagues and friendly neighbors disappear. And they don't leave a forwarding address. The truth is: They don't want to be a part of your pain. Maybe it hits too close to home, maybe they feel helpless to do anything about it, maybe they're afraid your problems are contagious. Whatever the reason, they bail out, they bail out fast, and they don't come back. Like it or not, you are on your own.
That's what happened to me. Overnight, I was alone with my problems. And I needed help. Oh, how I needed help. My husband was having regular rage attacks, and my family was certain he was going to hurt me. So, did I do anything? No. I sat and cried in the living room — with the phone off, so I couldn't hear his threats, and the blinds down, so he couldn't see me if he drove by.
Now, God works in mysterious ways. You remember that saying? My mother loved to say that. Whenever something ludicrous happened, I'd say, "OK, Mom, how could that possibly be God's doing?" And she'd say, "Well, dear, God works in mysterious ways." I always thought that was a copout.
Until the dog.
Harley, our Great Dane puppy, took things into his own hands — or rather, teeth. I was sitting in my usual morning position, sniffling and dabbing my eyes with Kleenex, when I realized Harley's head was no longer resting on the ottoman, looking up at me with that consummate Great Dane mix of devotion and sadness. "Harley," I called, "where are you?" I could hear him in the hallway. "Harley, come!" No Harley. I got up to find him. He was loping slowly toward me, struggling to carry something too heavy for his scrawny neck. "Whatcha got there, boy?" He tried to lift his head. I pulled his burden out of his mouth. It was my untouched copy of "The Artist's Way" — now decorated with ripped cover, teeth marks and Dane drool.
I had always wanted to do "The Artist's Way" (Julia Cameron, Jeremy P. Tarcher, 1992), but I had always been "too busy." Well, I wasn't busy anymore. I wiped it off, sat down and began to read. On Page 15, I stopped cold: "Anyone who faithfully writes morning pages will be led to a connection with a source of wisdom within. When I am stuck with a painful situation or problem that I don't think I know how to handle, I will go to the pages and ask for guidance."
Julia Cameron was talking to me! I needed wisdom, and I most certainly was stuck in a painful situation, and I sure didn't know to handle it. It was pretty clear that sitting and sobbing was not solving my problems. I hunted up a cheap black notebook and an old brown fountain pen. Julia said to write three morning pages. Well, it was morning, and at long last, I had all the time in the world to write.
But I didn't follow the book's directions. Something happened when I read that passage. My soul's needle, which had been careening madly around its compass for weeks, snapped to true north and picked up some silent subterranean instructions that guided me to write in a unique way.
"Dear God," I wrote at the top of the page. Why did I start that way? I have no idea. It just felt right. And then, I vented. Oh Lord, how I vented. I fussed and fumed at God. Are you paying any attention? Do you see what's happening here? Do you care? How are we going to live through this? How can I protect my baby? What am I going to do? Where are you? I didn't write the required three pages that morning; I wrote thirty. That was a clue that I had something to say and that journaling was helping me say it. After an hour and a half of furious full-speed-ahead writing, I didn't have any answers, but I did feel a little bit better, a little bit cleaner, a little bit lighter.
So, the next morning I did it again. And again. And again. And again. Day after day, I stabbed at the page in angry black ink. I told God every last little detail of every last little thing that was happening. What my husband did or threatened to do. How I canceled my son's birthday party when his father promised to crash it with a gun. What happened when he broke in. How it felt to protect my son with my body. What happened when we called the police the first time, the second, the third and the fourth. How the school insisted I drop my son off late and pick him up early to prevent scenes at school. How I moved from one coffee shop to another until it was time to pick him up. How I couldn't eat. How my son couldn't sleep. How he gnashed his teeth all night. How he crawled into my bed and would not leave. How we startled in the dark at every creak and crack. How he crawled onto my lap and rocked silently for 30 minutes before he would leave for visitation. It was all there in my cheap black journals.
After a while, I noticed something. Not the first day or the second, but one day, there it was: a little bit of wisdom on the page. Not the answer to my life's problems, but definitely guidance for the day's. Occasionally it was what to do or what not to do, but most of the time, it was something smaller, something subtler — but, perhaps something richer — how to shift my thinking.
The first time it happened, I stopped writing and stared at the page. Huh? That wasn't me. I didn't write that. I'd never even had that thought. But there it was. And I knew, somehow I just knew, that this was important. This was it. This was my salvation. So I followed that guidance. Like Hansel in "Hansel and Gretel," I didn't know where I was or where I was going, but I followed those precious crumbs of wisdom. Step by step, day by day, journal entry by journal entry, I inched forward.
Every morning I talked to God, and every morning God answered. Did God hear me? Yes, I'm quite certain. Did God answer? Yes, I have no doubt. God answered right where I couldn't mistake it — on the page.
(Next week: There's meditation — and then there's written meditation.)
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E., talks to God and God talks back. During her divorce, Janet discovered that writing directly to God delivered the daily guidance she needed — right there on the page. When her heart healed, she created "Spiritual Geography," the first and only spiritual-healing system that maps the total process into seven countries and provides practical tools that anyone can use to move through the map to Peace. Discover your location, interact with the map and order Spiritual Geography travel guides at Spiritual Geography. Janet is currently writing "Dear God: The Conversation That Changes Everything." In addition to divine dialogue, Janet welcomes human conversation at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© copyright 2007 by Janet Conner
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