There are no blank pages.

The printed list of affirmations that is masking-taped to the cover of my journal begins with: “I am creative.” 

That’s the bass note. That’s what I’m here (arguably what we’re all here) for.

About a month now I’ve been speaking the whole list of affirmations aloud every morning when I sit down at my desk to write. 

The list ends with this: “With help from the gods, I craft worlds out of chaos.”

That’s the punctuating thrust. When I read that final line I pump my fist in the air like Bender at the end of The Breakfast Club, and I get to work.

In between the first and the last there are 33 other lines, each holding something with which I’m in a daily wrestling match to remember is true. 

Half-way down the list I read this affirmation: “I win most of my battles against the blank page.”

I’m going to keep that one, because it helps to get me going. Helps me open a new document or sharpen a pencil. Helps me put down the first line. But, as I am (victoriously) jotting out my thoughts today, I’m realizing that a deeper point of wisdom insists this: “There are no blank pages.”

Like I wrote last time, the ways that my ancestors scratched their days into existence comes through in me, somehow anew, yet not groundless. Everything any of us write or make or become is a palimpsest of lines bleeding through the pages of life, one moment, one encounter, one act, one harsh, harmful, or healing word at a time.

My being here, posting posts on Substack, is a palimpsest of its own. Every word I write is layered on top of the things I’ve been paying attention to for years. This fresh commitment to write, out loud, here and now, is layered on top of other endeavors. It’s different from the stack of personal journals, that span decades, on the shelf to my left. Those are part of the palimpsest I suppose, but I’m talking about previous public endeavors.

There was the seven years during my twenties when I kept a blog that was, in large part, me exploring and expressing my conversion from evangelical Christianity to everyday curiosity. (The archives are out there on the internet. Happy hunting.) 

Then when I was at the helm of Renewal in the Wilderness, for the five years preceding the pandemic, I did my best to weave together regular articulations of organizational authority through my Executive Director voice, with the authenticity and openness of my Aram-the-human voice. It was a good tension to engage. And a good one to shake loose. (Though surely it still grips me at times, in different guise.) 

And in early 2019 I started following Mary Oliver’s instructions to: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” I took a swing, for a few months every day, at putting something down on the page and pressing publish. They were mostly reflections devoted to my quotidian encounters with wildness. That practice felt good. It was fruitful. (Maybe I’ll dust off and rework some of my favorites from that season.)

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Now I’m here again and anew, writing things down, pressing publish, saying them out loud. I remain compelled by Mary’s instructions. There’s a sufficiency in them. As I write and share, if I pay attention with astonishment and manage, somehow, to tell about it, then I will feel satisfied. But there’s more that I want to do here too, maybe not with every entry, but ultimately. 

Beyond (within? throughout?) weaving word webs that are anchored to the attention I pay and the astonishment I have in our wild and wonderful world, I will be wrestling//dancing to honor my calling. 

My calling is to accompany and guide people in their experiences of spiritual maturing. I really believe that agile humans committed to ongoing formation are vital to healthy ecologies of love and justice and—yep—creativity. When all my words are piled up, that’s what I hope bleeds through.

So, let me tell it to you direct:

If you keep reading what I keep writing, know that I will be aiming to coax and coach out of you a spirit of wild intrigue and habits of hearty conviction on behalf of our sweet and troubled world.

What do you think? Are you in?

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PS – If you’re someone who shows up everyday to do battle with the blank page, you might be interested in the multi-week writers’ workshop that my dear friendMichelle Dowd will be offering in partnership with Orion Magazine in the new year. (Including a surprise guest facilitator for one of the February sessions! I’ll give you a hint: It’s me.) Check it out! Applications due tomorrow (November 15).