As I drove down the Turnpike headed west through the Berkshires, I started to have a conversation with God.
“Ok, I’m listening, why exactly did you want me to go to this Omega place for a writing workshop?” Silence
It had seemed a good idea at the time I registered. The glitzy catalogue was very attractive and full of opportunities for growth. I like writing and others have said they liked my writing -- if you could call the short pieces about finding, often tripping over God in everyday life, writing.
And I had hit a loggerhead -- writers block I guess they call it. Mine was more like constipation. You strain and strain and you want something desperately to come out -- after a while you don’t care if it does look like crap -- you just want the relief of having it come out of you.
So there was the constipation and the need to just get away from the pressures of work.
And so I signed up two weeks ago -- it seemed like a good idea at the time.
But winding through the Berkshires, I paid no attention to the beautiful vistas that the road reveals as it cuts through the mountains.
Sitting here, writing this, I realize that I don’t even know how I got here. The whole trip here my thoughts were elsewhere, as the reality of what I was about to do sunk in. I was going to camp with a bunch of people who probably were real writers -- people who had been doing this for years. People who had had training in this.
My writing training consisted in a journalism course 35 years ago the only scrap of which I remember is that you need to pack as much into the first paragraph because by the time you get to the fifth you’ve lost 80% of your readers.
As I neared Austerlitz and the exit for the Taconic South, a voice in my head started to speak to me,
“You could just stay on the road going west and spend the week at Siena College. It’s home, it’s relaxing and Mikey it’s safe.”
“You could call up your classmate Brian right now and get a room. This is a no brainer.”
But apparently my grey Toyota wasn’t listening. She got off at the Taconic exit and headed South.
But the voice in my head was persistent. “South? Great!! You do realize that we are only two and a half hours from the New York City. You can camp out with the brothers at 31st or 96th street, one of them will have room. Man, when was the last time you had 5 days in the city -- so much to do or not do, it’s all up to you.
I thought about it, but didn’t respond to the very attractive alternative. I kept driving south. At some point the voice realized that he hadn’t quite closed the deal of derailing the Omega venture.
So then he brought out the heavy guns. “About this workshop, one question -- Do you really want to embarrass yourself? Because you know, that’s probably going to be what is going to happen. You know they expect you to read what you write -- it said it right there in the brochure. Do you really want to be perceived as a ‘wanna be’ all week long? Listen to me! Do the safe thing. Don’t do this! I tell you -- this is not going to end well.
Despite the voice’s tapping into my deepest fear, I still got off the Taconic onto what I can best describe as a back road. As it wound through farm and field I thought, “I’m lost! This can’t be right!” And I caved into the voice and said to myself, “Well if I don’t find it quickly -- I will just head to the city.”
And then over the next rise was a sign -- Omega.
My last chance to escape was now gone. As I pulled into the parking lot, the voice, apparently realizing the futility of the situation, fell silent.
I parked and went into the welcome center and registered. The people could not have been nicer. “This bodes well.” I tried to convince myself.
I set my campsite and set out to explore the Institute, which is situated on hundreds of acres. I found a neat little café, bought a decaf and pulled out the brochure they give to the newbie’s.
.
As I thumbed through it trying to find the map, my eyes fell on the words, Cancelation Policy - “Well, too late for that.” I sighed, with more resignation than anything else.
But for some reason I kept on reading that section. Maybe it was the lawyer in me subconsciously scouring for something in the fine print that would somehow hold the key to my escape from potential humiliation.
And then, there it was. My eyes latched on to a paragraph that said if you are not happy with a workshop you can switch to another one.
With this discovery the voice that had been silent since our arrival literally screamed with excitement,
“Here it is! Here’s your out. If tomorrow this thing really sucks, if you bomb, if you are totally out of your league, you can just switch to some other program, something safe like permaculture -- you like gardening or listening to your gut. BUT not singing, cuz with your voice that definitely would be embarrassing!!
What the voice said did make a lot of sense. Ok, I decided, that will be my Plan B, that’s my safety net if I fell off the high wire of writing.
Backup plan safely decided on, I began exploring the serpentine pathways that wound up the hill until I came upon a sign that said sanctuary. There was no building in sight, just an arch and a set of stone steps that snaked into the darkness. I thought about turning back, thinking that this was a journey better made in the light of day, but something nudged me on. Flashlight in hand, I carefully climbed the twisting, uneven rock stairway. Carefully, slowly, I made my way to the top where there were some soft lights illuminating the entrance.
As I entered the dark, cool wooden building, I could barely make out among the shadows where the chairs were. I was looking for a chair. I wasn’t ready to sit on one of those cushion things, too early in the week for that.
As I settled into a chair and relaxed, my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and I came to the realization that I was not alone. There were other people seated throughout the sanctuary.
What they were doing there, I had no clue. Maybe emptying themselves. Maybe filling themselves. Maybe both.
Somehow comforted by the fact that I was not alone, I relaxed and my thoughts turned to the God who had brought me here.
I thought, “OK God, I’m still waiting for my answer. Why am I here?”
Silence.
After a while my butt went numb and I decided that it was time to go. I headed down the hill, armed again with the trusted flashlight. I was even more careful than on my ascent, as I didn’t want to trip and “go ass over teakettle” as my grandmother would say. Even though God had not told me why I was here, I was pretty sure it wasn’t to get a broken neck!
And then, as I came around a turn, my flashlight shone on a curved wall below. Looking down on the top of the wall I saw written in small, smooth stones one word: Divine.
In that one word I was reminded of who God is and who I am -- at my best and not filled with self-doubt.
In that one word was the answer to the question of why I was here.
I was here to have an experience of God’s divine unconditional love --
a love that accepts and doesn’t judge,
a love that holds and treasures what is broken in our lives,
a love that takes the brokenness shared and then does something truly amazing with it.
I was here to be bathed in that love and to be reminded that ultimately Divine love is all that I need to face the challenges of this life
and to cope with the voices in my head.
God had finally spoken.
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