I recently listened to a writing seminar on MP3 about the spiritual life of a writer. The speaker had the attendees do an imagery exercise she had done a few years ago. It sounds like some New Age/meditative hocus pocus but she said it had been a powerful experience for her and led to an examined encounter with God.
I played along.
We were to imagine ourselves planting a seed.
That’s it. There were no further suggestions.
I was driving so I didn’t close my eyes, but I did look at the movie screen on the inside of my forehead to see me standing near a tree with God.
He kind of looked liked Gandalf, or Dumbledore.
He handed me a seed and said to plant it.
I stood there next to my Father, the Creator of the World, and I shook my head, and clutched my seed in my hot fist and all but stomped my foot in my refusal.
Doesn’t take a rocket scientist or even a psychologist to figure that one out.
The question is why won’t I plant it? What good is the seed doing in my hand? None. Why won’t I let it do what it was created to do, sprout and grow and generate shade and new life?
Because I’m scared.
That’s a pathetic reason.
I’ve written a reminder and posted it on my monitor: Live Fearlessly. Love whole-heartedly.
Today I prayed for: Pastor George and his family, Mom, Lois, and Dave H.
Last movie: … I have no idea
Currently reading: On Beauty by Zadie Smith. Lovely and lyrical and funny.