The journey to write here—my wholehearted story

This guest post from Penelope Love explores how following our deepest calling as writers can shape the journey of our wholehearted stories.

This is the twelfth guest post in our Wholehearted Stories series on Quiet Writing! I invited readers to consider submitting a guest post on their wholehearted story. You can read more here – and I’m still keen for more contributors! 

Quiet Writing celebrates self-leadership in wholehearted living and writing, career and creativity. This community of voices, with each of us telling our own story of what wholehearted living means, is a valuable and central part of this space. In this way, we can all feel connected on our various journeys and not feel so alone. Whilst there will always be unique differences, there are commonalities that we can all learn from and share to support each other.

I am honoured to have my friend Penelope Love as a ‘Wholehearted Stories’ contributor. Penelope explores writing as a deep calling shaping her journey over time. She describes how her writing life has intersected with love and spirituality as key themes in her life. My sincere thanks to Penelope for sharing her personal story and photographs as well as the books and vital practices that have influenced her journey. With her new book – a memoir, ‘Wake Up in Love: From Sex and Romance to the Ultimate Understanding’ – imminent, read Penelope’s reflections on knowing your calling, writing and love to guide your story!

Beginning my journey to write here

To write or not to write was never the question.

My love for writing was born of sheer enchantment with the dance of my elfin fingers and a No. 2 pencil pressed against the bumpy margins of a newspaper left strewn across the kitchen table. Whilst my mother washed dishes, I perfected my letters… slowly, slowly carving out my name. I tingled as the life force pierced my body and brain. Waving a pink-tipped golden wand, I witnessed the alphabet come to life before me… oh, t’was magical!

A rainbow of writing accolades soon spanned my horizon. As early as my elementary years, the parents and relatives branded me “the writer in the family,” their New York accents spinning legends of a little girl who would traject this gift across the world.

As I approached high school graduation, my father often spoke of his friend’s daughter who made a living as a writer. In fact, she earned six figures and was even flown around the globe with her happy pen in hand. Imagine that! I did indeed—first-class flights to Rome, Paris, Strasbourg, Johannesburg, Tokyo, Perth, and Calgary, not to mention being lavished with more money than one could ever need, just because a girl could write?!

Write about what? 

Write about what? I didn’t know, but the question of her subject matter never crossed my thirsty teenage mind. I just wanted her life in the azure sky, miles above the clouds and close to the shimmering sun. In no time, I’d be like her—rich, self-sufficient, and far away from people who expected miracles from me.

It was the mid-1990s when I entered the university with a typewriter in hand and later departed with a laptop bag draped over my shoulder. In four short years, the new-fangled digital tools of the trade had literally changed our world and most importantly for me, the way this English major now wrote. Possessing a “delete” key, I lost countless writings to self-doubt, and even more to lack of remembering to hit Control + S. The fluorescent palette of Windows 95 proved a more addictive drug for a perfectionist than any erasable pen. It was too easy to tweak e-scribblings that never seemed quite good enough. The brave new world was now here and I was not sure I wanted to be a writer anymore.

Despite my uncertainty, I could not shake my writer crush on Alice Walker—her novels, poetry, essays, activism and how she effortlessly transformed rage into beauty that inspired social change through her poignant words. With this level of mastery as my barometer, I pursued a master’s degree in English, though to expand my career opportunities I eventually phased over to the college of journalism. Focused first and foremost on getting “published,” writing seemed far from the mystical endeavor I’d fallen in love with as a child.

Then it happened. As I formulated my thesis, I discovered that I no longer enjoyed writing. Yet I sure was in love with the professors who taught it. To my chagrin, my finest writings never extended into the realms of passion I fantasized about. Writing? Huh. Why expose my soul before teachers who just left my heart bleeding overnight while they went home to their lives, of which I had none? Why torture myself when I was deft enough at this craft to instruct others on how to do it? Why write if I could swap my black pen for a red one and wear silky scarves and blouses, sexy skirts, stilettos, and tortoise-shell glasses? I mean, why write if I could be an editor!

Writer in hiding

By the late ‘90s, the U.S. economy had exploded during the .com craze—so much in fact that some corporations were even paying the lowly interns—yes, me! Here my lucky star landed me an editorial apprenticeship in the personal finance and lifestyle department of the prestigious Bankrate.com. I had recently married a business student and I was acquiring a taste for the freedom that came with earning my own paycheck. I was not flying high yet, but I’d circumnavigated my existence as a puppet dangled by parents who had kept me mostly in the dark about all things financial. As fate and good fortune would have it, my Bankrate internship enriched me with both income and invaluable knowledge.

Following graduation, my then-husband and I moved north to pursue our dreams of working in the Big Apple—Manhattan! I dressed the part and perhaps imagined that even the pigeons stared as I sauntered down Fifth Avenue as an editorial assistant. Within three weeks the Twin Towers came crashing down, along with my fantasies about commuting to the city and wielding my editorial prowess in New York. Since I was actually residing in safer haven of nearby Princeton, New Jersey, I stayed put and soared up the corporate ladder, so high that I didn’t even bother keeping a diary over the next five years. Too busy had I become for my own words when so many people were counting on me to perfect theirs.

Falling back in love with writing

When life led me back to Florida in 2003, it was the stress of destructive family dynamics and an impending divorce that led me to an Al-Anon meeting, where the facilitator urged me to crack open my journal again. She was right—I needed to know if I could still hear my own voice beneath the deafening volume of all the mental noise I’d let in over the years. The higher up the corporate ladder I scaled, the more it felt tilted 180 degrees away from the happiness, inner peace and deep healing I desired more than anything in the world.

This may sound fantastical but when I re-opened my diary, her empty lines smiled as if happy to see me, their old friend. She embraced my every tear, question, and hopeful new conception of reality bubbling up from my long-silenced heart. I confess, my journal entries reflected the soul of a woman consumed by primal desires for true love and red hot sex. Yet as I returned to the joys of pressing my pen to paper, I experienced an inkling of falling back in love with writing.

The proper care and feeding of writers

Loving a man and loving writing were ultimately not two separate things, although I’d fallen into a discordant thought-pattern of either-or:

Either I could pursue my writing career or I could care for a man, but not both.

Such a black-and-white attitude sounds imprudently restrictive now, but this worldview was branded into the layers of my soul since birth. My mother lived as if it were her sole responsibility to care for my father and for us children. The notion that I could gallivant about the globe as a writer—although it had been dangled before me like candy—conflicted with other familial attitudes I was forced to swallow regarding about “the proper care and feeding of husbands.” Could I ever balance true love, a nourishing sex life, and a successful writing career? This clash of seemingly incompatible desires and my utter lack of control to manifest them catapulted me onto the spiritual path with full surrender.

It was 2004 and the spiritual teacher to whom I was led was a jnani in the lineage of Ramana Maharshi. Nick Gancitano disseminated Self-Inquiry as the spiritual director of an ashram in Florida, where I attended Satsang for the first time. My earnest desire for inner peace was met with a revelation of karmic destiny, as Nick became my lover and we were married within two weeks of our first meeting. Our sex life unfolded as an intuitive exploration of the ancient ways of Tantra. Here I found that with an authentic state of surrender, true love was not only possible—it was inevitable, transforming sex into a meditation that trumped my most exquisite erotic fantasies.

To top it all off, during the course of this adventure, I discovered something truly worth writing about. Scribble down insights I did, vowing that one day, once the tender fragments in my journals had been laced into a manuscript reflecting my heart’s knowing, I would publish it. And I would come out as a writer.

Morning Pages and the journey to write

As quickly as I moved into the ashram, my spiritual practice deepened and creativity flowed now with greater frequency. I’d hopped off the corporate ladder and went freelance, consciously reducing my workload toward a deep dive into the inner life. Yet despite my newfound time freedom, I only wrote in spurts. As much as I respected my daytime profession, my heart knew that an editor is actually just a writer in denial. In 2007, I expressed my frustration to a Satsang friend, a prolific fashion designer whose overstuffed sketch book I admired. She recommended Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, wherein I discovered the Morning Pages that would leave ink stains on my hands and a mark on my life.

Between 2007 and 2010, I folded my freelance business when the ashram relocated to Costa Rica. There amidst the cloud forest I exercised the Morning Pages with the intention of writing my book. I invited Nick to write these Morning Pages with me, and within six weeks a full-fledged, 280-page manuscript busted the seams of his notebook. And once again, I found an excuse to avoid writing as I turned creative attention toward the development and publishing of the book that had come through him and not me.

Patterns emerging in the journey to write here

This provided me an opportunity to observe a pattern as destructive as avoidance—blame: It was now my husband’s fault that I’m not a writer. When we returned to the States in 2010, it seemed that years of energy were required to re-establish myself as a freelance editor and eventually form my own successful publishing company. In the intermittent creases of successive projects, I finally returned to the Morning Pages in 2013 and the past patterns of avoidance and blame resurfaced only to unwind before my very eyes.

Initially, past learned behavior of putting what I perceived as my husband’s needs before my own re-emerged fiercely. I hadn’t chosen the worldly path of self-sufficiency; I’d chosen love, the inward path of Self-Inquiry, and reliance on God to care for all my needs. For weeks, months and years at a time, I foolishly convinced myself that the Morning Pages were incompatible with the teachings of Self-Inquiry—for if the world is an illusion, then why write? And I couldn’t have the mornings free anyway, because if I didn’t snuggle and meditate with Nick first thing, would I be sinfully putting my personal desires before love?

But that was all in my head. Nick became the biggest advocate of my relationship with the Morning Pages and with time and flexibility, I discovered it was possible to experience the holy trinity of writing, snuggling and meditation in my morning routine. In a way, I owe my forthcoming memoir to Love in the shape of Morning Pages. Here is an excerpt from them as testimony to the brilliance of this tool that intimately reacquainted my soul with its calling—the mysticism and magic of writing.

Write here in my Morning Pages

It’s happening again. I hear my husband’s voice in the other room and my senses latch on to his every word and I blame him that I can’t find a quiet space to write—which is ridiculous because I might as well blame the iPod speaker on the bookshelf. Yet it does not have the same magnetic pull as Nick in his sentience, his unpredictability, his wisdom, his love. Aha! Look. Curiosity about what he is up to has once again (almost) drawn me away from this sacred whitespace where all complaints dissolve and contradictions resolve before my eyes.

Now I’m perfectly capable of closing the door and inserting the earplugs in an effort to be “more” present, but isn’t the point of Morning Pages shedding that thick skin called “effort” by writing through any and all distractions? Why am I here in the first place? Writing is just the excuse. I am here to remember what matters, to let go of what does not, and to write like no one else is reading it. In Reality, I am not even here to write. I am here to Be, to be naked of all sense of other… and paradoxically, that makes me a better writer and a more gracious lover.

When Steven Pressfield, talking with Oprah on SuperSoul Sunday, affirmed that everyone knows their “calling,” even if only carried as a secret in their heart, I could not deny my intuitive first response: writing!

What exactly pulled my attention so far from it all these years? I actually don’t like or dislike the act of writing. It is after all—just like when I practiced my letters at the kitchen table—just a happening. What I don’t enjoy is “the resistance,” the feeling that arises from expecting myself to express profundity. The one with these great expectations is the same imposter saying “I don’t enjoy it”! Yet it can’t stop the ink flow onto paper, the fingers dancing on a keyboard, and the characters appearing on the screen, revealing the contours of God.

It is wonderfully fulfilling to write the Morning Pages. Thank heavens for them. They are therapy. Like the perfect friend, they listen without criticism. If a judgment arises, they gently remind me it is my own. And now that it no longer hides, it cannot rule my life from underground. It can be seen for what it is: just another thought. Just another stone on the trail. One I can now pick up and skip across the still ocean, or prance across to reach the other side of the raging river. Either way, it no longer blocks the path and the beauty of my mind.

I am a writer — yes, I am!

My hand my Heart doth steer

universes beyond these words

my journey to write here.

Key books along my journey to write here

Be Still and Know I AM God by Anonymous

The Wisdom of Balsekar by Ramesh Balsekar

The Impersonal Life by Joseph Benner

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden

The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Spiritual Teachings of Ramana Maharshi (Foreword by C.J. Jung)

The Book of Secrets by OSHO

OSHO Zen Tarot: The Transcended Game of Zen

Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu (Translated by Stephen Mitchell)

Hsin-Hsin Ming: Verses on the Faith-Mind by Seng-t’san

A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle

The Supreme Yoga: Yoga Vasishta by Swami Venkatesananda

Anything We Love Can Be Saved: A Writer’s Activism by Alice Walker

My Life as My Self: An Intimate Conversation with Alice Walker (by Sounds True)

and…

“Four Questions to Help You Find Your Calling,” Steven Pressfield’s interview with Oprah Winfrey on SuperSoul Sunday, September 29, 2013

About Penelope Love

 

Penelope Love, MA, is the author of the spiritual memoir Wake Up in Love and the founder of Citrine Publishing. She also co-facilitates conscious relationship workshops and hosts meditation programs in the United States and internationally. An advocate for true love, she enjoys connecting with readers from around the world. Come say hello at www.PenelopeLove.com or connect via Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest or Twitter.

 

Photographs by Penelope Love and Arlington Smith used with permission and thanks.

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