The artist has the right to make one thing out of many and a world out of the smallest part.
RAINER MARIA RILKE
What we discover and uncover stays with us, and then we are called to stay true to what touches us. But how? By honoring the fact that, though we all need to be seen and heard, what we see is more important than being seen. Though he was legendary in his own time, the sculptor Auguste Rodin suffered harsh rejection because of the boldness of his work. Still, he remained loyal and steadfast to the clay and marble that spoke to him. Rilke described Rodin’s love of process this way:
His work alone spoke to him. It spoke to him in the morning when he awoke, and in the evening it reverberated in his hands long after he had laid it aside, like music in an instrument one has ceased to play.
I recognize the deep effect of what we are led to. I am often reverberating with images at night that I have wrestled into view during the day. They linger on my hands as I try to understand what meaning they carry.
One such image came to me in a very short story about a cyclist who has trained for months to compete in a race. On the day of the race, he is so far ahead that he can barely see the other racers. As he glides down the far side of a hill, a great blue heron suddenly appears, wings fully spread, above his handlebars. He is stunned and stops, straddling the bike. The story moves years ahead, when the cyclist is asked, “What cost you the race?” He stares out into the woods behind his home and says, “I didn’t lose the race. I left it.”
The image of the heron instantly became my guide. I started to read about herons and began to watch herons. I even tried to draw them. In time, the book the story was a part of, As Far As the Heart Can See, was accepted for publication. I put the story about the cyclist and the heron as the first piece in the book. But when my editor gave me her first round of edits, she wanted me to cut the heron from the story. I was dumbfounded.
This revealed such a chasm between us that I realized we had a very different understanding of life and no common language. Hard as it was, I pulled the book from the publisher. I was heartbroken and somewhat lost. In other instances, it would have been easy to change the story or substitute another image. But I couldn’t move forward in this case, because asking me to cut the heron from the story was asking me to abandon what I saw in order to be seen. And this is at the crux of being who we are. It took three more years to find another publisher who marveled at the appearance of the heron as I did.
In writing each book since, I’ve been transformed by their creation into a conduit of love and an agent of care, which I now believe is how creating and expressing shape us. This understanding led to the following poem:
A Thirst for Simple Light
At first, it’s about achieving.
Creating something that might last.
Then having the thing so carefully
carried break before our eyes. And
building it again. Only to have our
foundation crack. If we have the strength,
we might keep building. But sooner or later,
we turn to help others carry simple things
or find what’s been lost. And one day,
purpose is a fugitive who’s forgotten
why he’s on the run. And as the body
is worn to only what matters, we are
worn to care, not build. To Care.
About anything. About whatever is
before us. Singing. Packing groceries.
Learning the names of all the leaves
on Earth. Collecting movies that have
life in the title and giving them away.
Anything that keeps us tumbling like
bottles of light destined to break
for those thirsty enough to
drop their need of cups.
None of this is new. It’s just our turn to discover the grace of what it means to be here. One of my favorite images comes from Basho. In 1689, he was walking around the island of Japan and didn’t know the way. He asked a farmer who said, “It’s easier if you just take my horse. He knows the way. When you get to the next town, just let him go and he’ll come home.” So Basho was led by this majestic creature and, once in the next town, he tied a gift to the empty saddle and sent the horse home.
That image of the riderless horse with a gift tied to its empty saddle touches me. Perhaps because I’ve been lost so many times over the years. Perhaps because I’ve been quietly saved by the kindness of strangers. Perhaps because some of my most satisfying moments as a human being have risen from the anonymous giving that we are sometimes called to offer. Perhaps because being a spirit in the world is so much like following a riderless horse that we lose and share and return to each other.
The images of the heron and the empty saddle have been great teachers. And following the heron and tying a gift to the empty saddle is now the work I’m devoted to.
In writing each book, I’ve been transformed by their creation into a conduit of love and an agent of care, which I now believe is how creating and expressing shape us.
An Invitation to Follow What Speaks and to Give
• In your journal, describe a part of the natural world that has become a totem for you. In my case, it was a heron. It might be a turtle or a willow or a broken shell from the sea. Research the history of your totem and explore how all this is speaking to you.
• When you can, tie a gift to the empty saddle of someone who has helped you on your way. In conversation with a friend or loved one, tell your story of tying a gift to the empty saddle. Later, write a poem or story about the empty saddle.