A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. Franz Kafka
These are arresting words for me just now, the one who is writing a book. After two long, determined and failed efforts to write my memoir, this version decided to be written. At least that’s what it feels like this time–easy, even though putting in the time on it is the same. It seems this will be my long life lesson: when you stop trying, when you surrender control, when you give up, there is space for what is authentic to arise and to start this slow and intricate dance of creation.
The hardest thing for me was finding the structure of the book; I didn’t want it to be a linear “first I did this and then I did that.” What suddenly came together was: A Long Walk Home: One Woman’s Life as Pilgrimage. Or at least that is the working title. I wrote about 70,000 words and then sent it off to a developmental editor, much like leaving your toddler at preschool for the first time. It’s been with her for a few weeks now, while I take a rest from re-reading it and having second doubts.
While I wait and wonder what her editorial comments will be, I know at the same time the guts of this book is my truth. I am content with this book, even knowing there is much to edit in the coming months. But while I wait, this quote makes me reconsider my writing in light of Kafka’s assertion. Is it an axe for the frozen sea inside me? Would it be that for others? Have I identified the frozen sea in its totality yet?
It’s a vulnerable book already. I look at the many ways I have defended my heart and used my strong will to bulldoze my way through life–with mostly good intentions, but not always with a slowing to hear what guidance might come from a deeper place. That’s what pilgrimage has done for me–worn down the defenses. After the long walk with all its challenges, pain, anxiety, not-knowing, and sheer fatigue–yes, like an axe at times, I have been left with a compassionate and slightly amusing view of all my efforts at getting life right. A sweet humility come smiling at me and a tender love that understands.
I feel connected to the vast frozen sea in all my human community today; some of us yearning for melting, some of us considering it and some of us who will never trust that thawing will be safe or survivable. We all have that unique memoir that is difficult to write, to offer. I don’t feel like taking an axe to it today.. just letting the rays of lengthening sun do what they do.
3 thoughts on “An Axe for the Frozen Sea”
I’m so looking forward to reading this, Marcia. Your way has always been a gentle thawing.
What Kaylene said!
when I was reading your words about not knowing if you’d found the frozen sea in yourself or in others, it made me ponder a frozen sea. When you look upon it, all you can see is what’s on top. The rest is unknown. How deep does the ice go? One way to find out would be to take an axe to it. I love this as a metaphor for Not Knowing. I’m pretty sure you’ve found the frozen sea and I can’t wait to read all about it.
I am so looking forward to reading your book, my friend — grateful for the ways the path opens to us at the right time. Love you!