Acts of Surrender 14: All That Matters is That I'm Writing (II)
Much has occurred in my life since I last posted an installment here from Acts of Surrender, my memoir-in-progress. In some ways, the most significant is the change in the book's subtitle, from "A Writer's Journey of Faith" to "A Journey Beyond Faith," which is a truer reflection of how I see this particular journey unfolding.
"Who am I? What do I want from my life?"
I asked these questions a few days after my 56th birthday as I drove down to Crystal Cove State Park in Newport Beach for a meditative walk. It had been storming all morning, and I was counting on a misty, moody beach walk to match my gray state of mind. But by the time I pulled into the parking lot, all but scudding white powder-puffs had fled the sky, which was a blue so deep it seemed more Southwest than west coast.
Earlier that morning, in Abrahamic sacrifice, I had been prepared to give over everything to God, including my writerly identity. "For now," I wrote, "I'm more naked than I've ever let myself be...more empty than I could ever have imagined possible." Who I was and where I was going were mysteries I couldn't even begin to fathom. But when I stepped onto the deserted beach, the sands still damp from the morning's downpour, a series of aha's began to fill in some of the void.
My first awareness was of a hand pulling away mine — the one that held the knife of sacrifice to my writing. In agreeing, like Abraham, to give up what I held most dear, the need for sacrifice dissolved. Writing would remain a central pillar of my life.
Next was the clear certainty that my departure from Orange County now needed to occur on October 10 — 10/10/10, which in numerological terms signified a trifecta of new beginnings. I would travel through Sedona to Albuquerque and Santa Fe, the principal stops on the solo portion of my journey since coming to the U.S.
If my first day in Sedona, in September 1997, marked my entry into a life I couldn't then have begun to imagine, my return, 13 years and one month later, seemed to signify a rebirth of equally dramatic proportions. With no conscious planning, October 11 turned into a replay of that first day, including a miraculous pilgrimage back to Rachel's Knoll, a site that had closed to the public within months of my 1997 arrival.
Rachel's Knoll is now part of the Seven Canyons Resort property at the end of Long Canyon Road, about 15 minutes outside of town. I drove along Long Canyon Road that morning, looking for the trailhead pullout where I'd spent my very first Sedona night sleeping in my car as the full moon rose over me. When I got to the end of the road, I planned to ask the guard at the Seven Canyons gate if I could come in, just to turn around.
"Welcome to Seven Canyons," he said, beaming, as I pulled up.
"Thanks," I said, astonished by a warmth I'd never experienced the other times I'd turned around here. "I used to live in Sedona," I added, "before this resort was built."
He nodded. "That would have been at least seven years ago."
"Nineteen ninety-seven."
He nodded again.
"I used to come up here all the time, to go to Rachel's Knoll."
He paused for only an instant.
"It's still there, you know."
"Oh?"
"Would you like to go up?"
My heart raced. Would I?
The guard gave me instructions and sent me on my way. Five minutes later, I was standing atop the hill whose panoramic views and sweet, powerful energy had so seduced me from my first day in Sedona.
No one in town could believe that I'd not only been allowed in, but that I'd been invited in. I barely believed it. Along with that day's other magically unlikely events, it felt like a sign of big changes to come.
Running into Martha Martyn at Wildflower Bakery a few hours later was an equally portentous sign.
I first met Martha, then Martha Baer, within weeks of my arrival in Sedona. Ever since, she has continued to show up in my life at profoundly pivotal moments.
It was Martha, for example, who introduced me to the woman who would become my wife and to the sound healer who would trigger nearly a decade of my own work in the sound-energy field. The house Aalia and I moved into weeks before our marriage broke up in 2004 was a rental that, unbeknownst to us, Martha had backed out of. And when I ran into Martha three months later at Wildflower, at a time when I was giving up the name Aq'naton, a legally changed spiritual name I'd been using since 1998, it was she who suggested that I combine my first and middle birth names to become "Mark David."
My return to Albuquerque a few days later didn't play out quite as dramatically. But it did contain an echo of my first drive into the city, which had taken place days after my name-change experience with Martha. On the final stretch of both drives — each launched from the Sedona area — I suddenly grew so tired that I could barely keep going. In both instances, I had to pull into the parking lot at the Route 66 Casino about 20 miles west of town to take a nap. It was as though I was being energetically prepared for some major life-changing experience.
Little did I know, that first time, that Albuquerque would become my home. Little did I know this most recent time, what would be waiting for me: an unassailable clarity about what was now most important in my life.
There's a scene in The StarQuest, sequel to The MoonQuest, where Q'nta, the main character, must pass through The Coil, a serpentine tunnel in which she will be forced to face "all the horrors you can imagine...and then more on top of them." To her surprise — and to mine as the writer — her greatest fear turned out to be the loss of her storytelling ability:
If I recognized in that writerly moment that Q'nta's fear must also be mine, it was only after arriving back in Albuquerque that I began to see Q'nta's story play out in mine.
Two years ago, in a blog post titled All That Matters Is That I'm Writing, I wrote, "I cannot follow my soul's call to write if I keep worrying about how I'm going to live and what I may have to give up to do it. All I can do is do it." At that time, I had taken an unpleasant, poorly paid job as a stockman at the Hobby Lobby craft mart to help me through a severe financial crunch. What kept me going then was that realization about my writing and an accompanying determination to complete a first draft of The StarQuest in spite of the job's long, physically draining hours.
Today, I'm once again at a financial brink. And once again, in Albuquerque, I find myself in Q'nta's Coil, knowing more deeply than I have ever allowed myself to feel, that writing — telling my stories — matters more to me than absolutely anything. Like Q'nta, I can't quite believe it. Like Q'nta, I feel parental guilt. And like Q'nta, I know that the best gift I can give myself and my child is the legacy of a life passionately lived.
Unlike two years ago, though, I'm refusing to step back from the brink. Unlike two years ago, at least in this moment, I'm saying that the only thing I'm prepared to do is live my passion.
As I look back over the years, I see all the ways I've compromised and settled — out of fear. I see all the ways I've stepped back from the brink of seeming disaster, only to have that brink show up again. And again. And again.
The image I have of myself is of a drowning man, thrashing his arms in the water, struggling fearfully to avoid sinking that final time. I see now that, in one way or another, I've been thrashing and struggling for 56 years. I've gone through the motions of surrender, but I've never surrendered fully, unconditionally. How could I when my surrender was always predicated on an outcome? "If I do this one thing, Spirit will reward me in this other way. I'll be safe. I'll be protected. I'll have money...or fame...or success." Unconditional surrender would say: "I do this because I know in my deepest heart that this is the right choice. The only choice. And I do it with no expectation of reward and with no regard for the consequences."
I began to see that while I was in Orange County. It's become even clearer since arriving in Albuquerque.
What I have come to know here, with as much certainty as I can muster, is that I'm no longer prepared to step back from the brink. I'm no longer prepared to thrash or struggle or make compromises to stay afloat or, if it comes to that, to stay alive.
No, I'm not contemplating suicide. What I am doing, though, is digging deeper and deeper and deeper to identify the life that's worth living, the life that expresses my soul's deepest yearning. And I'm saying that I'm no longer prepared to let fear pull me from its pursuit, as I have over the years, despite the great strides I know I've made. Nor am I prepared to let anyone or anything outside of me pull me from that pursuit, regardless of the consequences.
I now see myself in sink-or-swim mode. I've stopped thrashing. The only pursuit that means anything to me right now is writing — the writings of my heart. While I've embraced writing from that place before, it's always been conditional and it's always been secondary to paying the bills.
Put another way, I've stepped off the brink. I've detached myself as best I can from the fear of consequences and have launched myself fully into the dark void of this journey — as fearlessly as I can manage.
I've reached a point where I'm either powerful enough to magnetize to me a life that's worth living or I'm not. I'm not looking for anyone to rescue me. I'm not looking for anything or asking for anything — from anyone or from God. I am, however, open to what comes to me and am open, perhaps more than ever before, to receiving the gifts of the universe, however proffered.
At root, I'm doing what I now know I must do if I'm to continue living. I'll either make it or I won't. I'll either sink or a tidal wave will carry me to shore. I'll either go splat or I'll survive the fall. But I'm no longer prepared to shrink from the full-body, full-hearted attempt.
As I experienced so presciently through Q'nta in The StarQuest, I now see that this choice may have implications on my relationship with my daughter and her mother. (In one of life's unending ironies, Aalia's birth name is Kentia, very close to that of the Q'nta character who first showed up peripherally in The MoonQuest, long before Kentia and I met, and is the protagonist of The StarQuest.)
If there is a short-term disruption in those relationships because of any choices I'm making, I will accept them. Because I know in my deepest heart that my biggest responsibility as a father is to model, to the best of my humanly imperfect ability, a willingness to make the fearless life choices that will enrich my daughter's journey in the years ahead. I believe equally that's the best legacy I can leave her.
In conventional terms, I'm homeless — counting on the loving generosity of friends to keep me off the street. In conventional terms, I'm irresponsible — detaching myself from everything the world deems important. In conventional terms, I'm close to penniless — with no credit, little cash and no known prospects to keep me going. In conventional terms, I'm foolish — putting passion ahead of all else.
It turns out I can't live in conventional terms.
Once upon a time, I gave my power to convention and lived largely by its rules. Once upon time, fear of consequences enslaved me with false promises of security. Once upon a time, I believed that the prison of my life had walls.
Today, I take back my power from the places, people and situations to which I've abdicated it. Today, I know that I created my own prison gates and my own jailers. Today, I know that I am free, even as I recognize that that freedom comes with consequences of its own.
Who am I? Someone who strives to live fearlessly, moment-to-moment.
What do I want from my life? The fullest expression of my deepest heart's desire — unconditionally and unapologetically, regardless of fallout or consequences.
How will it play out? There's no way of knowing.
All that matters is that I'm living from the highest imperative I can see in each moment.
Today, all that matters is that I'm writing.
Adapted from Acts of Surrender: A Journey Beyond Faith, my memoir-in-progress. Please share as you feel called to. But please, also, include a link back to this post.
Previous excerpts:
• April 28
• July 30
• August 25
• September 1
• September 9
• September 10
• September 12
• September 24
• September 27
• September 29
• October 1
• October 5
• October 6
Photos by Mark David Gerson: #1 + #2: The beach at Crystal Cove State Park, Newport Beach, CA; #3: The view of Rachel's Knoll, Sedona, AZ; #4 + #5: Albuquerque, NM; #6: Self-portrait at Rachel's Knoll
"Who am I? What do I want from my life?"I asked these questions a few days after my 56th birthday as I drove down to Crystal Cove State Park in Newport Beach for a meditative walk. It had been storming all morning, and I was counting on a misty, moody beach walk to match my gray state of mind. But by the time I pulled into the parking lot, all but scudding white powder-puffs had fled the sky, which was a blue so deep it seemed more Southwest than west coast.
Earlier that morning, in Abrahamic sacrifice, I had been prepared to give over everything to God, including my writerly identity. "For now," I wrote, "I'm more naked than I've ever let myself be...more empty than I could ever have imagined possible." Who I was and where I was going were mysteries I couldn't even begin to fathom. But when I stepped onto the deserted beach, the sands still damp from the morning's downpour, a series of aha's began to fill in some of the void.
My first awareness was of a hand pulling away mine — the one that held the knife of sacrifice to my writing. In agreeing, like Abraham, to give up what I held most dear, the need for sacrifice dissolved. Writing would remain a central pillar of my life.
Next was the clear certainty that my departure from Orange County now needed to occur on October 10 — 10/10/10, which in numerological terms signified a trifecta of new beginnings. I would travel through Sedona to Albuquerque and Santa Fe, the principal stops on the solo portion of my journey since coming to the U.S.If my first day in Sedona, in September 1997, marked my entry into a life I couldn't then have begun to imagine, my return, 13 years and one month later, seemed to signify a rebirth of equally dramatic proportions. With no conscious planning, October 11 turned into a replay of that first day, including a miraculous pilgrimage back to Rachel's Knoll, a site that had closed to the public within months of my 1997 arrival.
Rachel's Knoll is now part of the Seven Canyons Resort property at the end of Long Canyon Road, about 15 minutes outside of town. I drove along Long Canyon Road that morning, looking for the trailhead pullout where I'd spent my very first Sedona night sleeping in my car as the full moon rose over me. When I got to the end of the road, I planned to ask the guard at the Seven Canyons gate if I could come in, just to turn around.
"Welcome to Seven Canyons," he said, beaming, as I pulled up.
"Thanks," I said, astonished by a warmth I'd never experienced the other times I'd turned around here. "I used to live in Sedona," I added, "before this resort was built."
He nodded. "That would have been at least seven years ago."
"Nineteen ninety-seven."
He nodded again.
"I used to come up here all the time, to go to Rachel's Knoll."
He paused for only an instant.
"It's still there, you know."
"Oh?"
"Would you like to go up?"
My heart raced. Would I?
The guard gave me instructions and sent me on my way. Five minutes later, I was standing atop the hill whose panoramic views and sweet, powerful energy had so seduced me from my first day in Sedona.
No one in town could believe that I'd not only been allowed in, but that I'd been invited in. I barely believed it. Along with that day's other magically unlikely events, it felt like a sign of big changes to come.Running into Martha Martyn at Wildflower Bakery a few hours later was an equally portentous sign.
I first met Martha, then Martha Baer, within weeks of my arrival in Sedona. Ever since, she has continued to show up in my life at profoundly pivotal moments.
It was Martha, for example, who introduced me to the woman who would become my wife and to the sound healer who would trigger nearly a decade of my own work in the sound-energy field. The house Aalia and I moved into weeks before our marriage broke up in 2004 was a rental that, unbeknownst to us, Martha had backed out of. And when I ran into Martha three months later at Wildflower, at a time when I was giving up the name Aq'naton, a legally changed spiritual name I'd been using since 1998, it was she who suggested that I combine my first and middle birth names to become "Mark David."
My return to Albuquerque a few days later didn't play out quite as dramatically. But it did contain an echo of my first drive into the city, which had taken place days after my name-change experience with Martha. On the final stretch of both drives — each launched from the Sedona area — I suddenly grew so tired that I could barely keep going. In both instances, I had to pull into the parking lot at the Route 66 Casino about 20 miles west of town to take a nap. It was as though I was being energetically prepared for some major life-changing experience.
Little did I know, that first time, that Albuquerque would become my home. Little did I know this most recent time, what would be waiting for me: an unassailable clarity about what was now most important in my life.
There's a scene in The StarQuest, sequel to The MoonQuest, where Q'nta, the main character, must pass through The Coil, a serpentine tunnel in which she will be forced to face "all the horrors you can imagine...and then more on top of them." To her surprise — and to mine as the writer — her greatest fear turned out to be the loss of her storytelling ability:
I shook my head. It wasn't the nightmare I'd expected. Never seeing my child again: Wouldn't that be a greater nightmare? Failing at The StarQuest: Wouldn't that be the worst nightmare of all? How could losing my stories be worse than those? What kind of mother would I be if I put my stories before my son? Before my family and friends? Before my homeland?
If I recognized in that writerly moment that Q'nta's fear must also be mine, it was only after arriving back in Albuquerque that I began to see Q'nta's story play out in mine.
Two years ago, in a blog post titled All That Matters Is That I'm Writing, I wrote, "I cannot follow my soul's call to write if I keep worrying about how I'm going to live and what I may have to give up to do it. All I can do is do it." At that time, I had taken an unpleasant, poorly paid job as a stockman at the Hobby Lobby craft mart to help me through a severe financial crunch. What kept me going then was that realization about my writing and an accompanying determination to complete a first draft of The StarQuest in spite of the job's long, physically draining hours. Today, I'm once again at a financial brink. And once again, in Albuquerque, I find myself in Q'nta's Coil, knowing more deeply than I have ever allowed myself to feel, that writing — telling my stories — matters more to me than absolutely anything. Like Q'nta, I can't quite believe it. Like Q'nta, I feel parental guilt. And like Q'nta, I know that the best gift I can give myself and my child is the legacy of a life passionately lived.
Unlike two years ago, though, I'm refusing to step back from the brink. Unlike two years ago, at least in this moment, I'm saying that the only thing I'm prepared to do is live my passion.
As I look back over the years, I see all the ways I've compromised and settled — out of fear. I see all the ways I've stepped back from the brink of seeming disaster, only to have that brink show up again. And again. And again.
The image I have of myself is of a drowning man, thrashing his arms in the water, struggling fearfully to avoid sinking that final time. I see now that, in one way or another, I've been thrashing and struggling for 56 years. I've gone through the motions of surrender, but I've never surrendered fully, unconditionally. How could I when my surrender was always predicated on an outcome? "If I do this one thing, Spirit will reward me in this other way. I'll be safe. I'll be protected. I'll have money...or fame...or success." Unconditional surrender would say: "I do this because I know in my deepest heart that this is the right choice. The only choice. And I do it with no expectation of reward and with no regard for the consequences."
I began to see that while I was in Orange County. It's become even clearer since arriving in Albuquerque.
What I have come to know here, with as much certainty as I can muster, is that I'm no longer prepared to step back from the brink. I'm no longer prepared to thrash or struggle or make compromises to stay afloat or, if it comes to that, to stay alive.
No, I'm not contemplating suicide. What I am doing, though, is digging deeper and deeper and deeper to identify the life that's worth living, the life that expresses my soul's deepest yearning. And I'm saying that I'm no longer prepared to let fear pull me from its pursuit, as I have over the years, despite the great strides I know I've made. Nor am I prepared to let anyone or anything outside of me pull me from that pursuit, regardless of the consequences.
I now see myself in sink-or-swim mode. I've stopped thrashing. The only pursuit that means anything to me right now is writing — the writings of my heart. While I've embraced writing from that place before, it's always been conditional and it's always been secondary to paying the bills. Put another way, I've stepped off the brink. I've detached myself as best I can from the fear of consequences and have launched myself fully into the dark void of this journey — as fearlessly as I can manage.
I've reached a point where I'm either powerful enough to magnetize to me a life that's worth living or I'm not. I'm not looking for anyone to rescue me. I'm not looking for anything or asking for anything — from anyone or from God. I am, however, open to what comes to me and am open, perhaps more than ever before, to receiving the gifts of the universe, however proffered.
At root, I'm doing what I now know I must do if I'm to continue living. I'll either make it or I won't. I'll either sink or a tidal wave will carry me to shore. I'll either go splat or I'll survive the fall. But I'm no longer prepared to shrink from the full-body, full-hearted attempt.
As I experienced so presciently through Q'nta in The StarQuest, I now see that this choice may have implications on my relationship with my daughter and her mother. (In one of life's unending ironies, Aalia's birth name is Kentia, very close to that of the Q'nta character who first showed up peripherally in The MoonQuest, long before Kentia and I met, and is the protagonist of The StarQuest.) If there is a short-term disruption in those relationships because of any choices I'm making, I will accept them. Because I know in my deepest heart that my biggest responsibility as a father is to model, to the best of my humanly imperfect ability, a willingness to make the fearless life choices that will enrich my daughter's journey in the years ahead. I believe equally that's the best legacy I can leave her.
In conventional terms, I'm homeless — counting on the loving generosity of friends to keep me off the street. In conventional terms, I'm irresponsible — detaching myself from everything the world deems important. In conventional terms, I'm close to penniless — with no credit, little cash and no known prospects to keep me going. In conventional terms, I'm foolish — putting passion ahead of all else.
It turns out I can't live in conventional terms.
Once upon a time, I gave my power to convention and lived largely by its rules. Once upon time, fear of consequences enslaved me with false promises of security. Once upon a time, I believed that the prison of my life had walls.
Today, I take back my power from the places, people and situations to which I've abdicated it. Today, I know that I created my own prison gates and my own jailers. Today, I know that I am free, even as I recognize that that freedom comes with consequences of its own.
Who am I? Someone who strives to live fearlessly, moment-to-moment.What do I want from my life? The fullest expression of my deepest heart's desire — unconditionally and unapologetically, regardless of fallout or consequences.
How will it play out? There's no way of knowing.
All that matters is that I'm living from the highest imperative I can see in each moment.
Today, all that matters is that I'm writing.
Adapted from Acts of Surrender: A Journey Beyond Faith, my memoir-in-progress. Please share as you feel called to. But please, also, include a link back to this post.
Previous excerpts:
• April 28
• July 30
• August 25
• September 1
• September 9
• September 10
• September 12
• September 24
• September 27
• September 29
• October 1
• October 5
• October 6
Photos by Mark David Gerson: #1 + #2: The beach at Crystal Cove State Park, Newport Beach, CA; #3: The view of Rachel's Knoll, Sedona, AZ; #4 + #5: Albuquerque, NM; #6: Self-portrait at Rachel's Knoll
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