what's behind the wall?

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions. – Rainer Maria Rilke

When I was in high school we had a unit on the process of insight and how creativity works, and I found it fascinating and revelatory. I considered myself a “creative”, and loved exploring where creativity and insight comes from, and especially how to nurture it during those “stuck”, uninspired, moments of confusion or emptiness we all face. Interestingly, it was led by our chemistry teacher Mrs. Jakalski, and in the class she introduced the concept of “po”, or lateral thinking. (I’ve since learned that scientists are some of the most creative people out there.)

“Po” is about trying something new, about embracing mystery, the unsolved problem. Just as in my creative life, I’ve found embracing (leaning into) mystery and the questions both necessary and helpful to diving deeper into my own relationship with God. But spiritual practice takes this even further. As Rainer Maria Rilke points out, we have to not just question, try new approaches to find an answer or insight, but also frequently sit back and just live with the fact of our un-knowing. To an inquisitive mind, that’s really hard to do. It feels like sitting on one’s hands.

There’s a great kids’ song we sing in our house sometimes, What’s Behind the Wall? by Dog On Fleas. It’s a bouncy tune based on the Humpty Dumpty rhyme, and is full of questions: what’s behind the wall? Who put that wall there? Who put the egg on the wall? Sometimes, my questioning, creative mind wants to keep turning over the darkness, the stuck-ness, to come at it with the same questioning energy in the children’s song. But I’m learning that right now this side of the wall is maybe where I need to be, and just living in the dark right now is right.

Zen Buddhist koans contain that, Christian contemplative prayer does too. It’s hard, awkward, uncomfortable. One feels silly, foolish. But not only is it necessary, it’s the only way forward sometimes. Sometimes the questions are all you’ve got, and living with them a bit is precisely the thing to do.

The kids are thinking about Stamboul, as have Patrick and I. I’m encouraging them to journal about what they’re thinking, what they’re afraid of, what they hope to see, smell, eat, and hear. L is enamored with the idea of the luxurious bath, the hammam, D is worried about making mistakes and inadvertently offending someone.

Patrick surprised me with some travel books this week, and I’m working my way through them. They are food and history, long walks and a couple of Pamuk novels. And one includes an excerpt of John Feeley’s Stamboul Sketches, which is so evocative and beautifully written I’ve been reading passages out loud to P.

Istanbul is best seen from a seat by a tavern window in the Passage of Flowers, froth-crowned Argentine in hand. The city is at heart nothing more than the sum of its citizens, and most of these will eventually stroll by your window or sit next to you, drinking from an Argentine themselves. You will get to know the Stamboullus in this way, and later you can visit them in the monuments they inhabit. This is the Levantine approach to sightseeing, a distinct improvement on the Guide Bleu.

One thing I find compelling in his writing is his intense focus on local faces and street scenes to paint a picture of life in this enormous, diverse, and ancient city.

Still life with cat, yarn and travel book.

Istanbul, I read in other passages, is awash in feral cats, which brings to mind our honeymoon in Rome, where we snuck triangles of soft cheese from our hotel breakfast plates and fed them to the cats who inhabit the ruins of the temple of the Vestal Virgins. I spent some happy hours there, feeding the cats and sketching for a few watercolor paintings. I read that our pensione in Stamboul has at least two resident cats; I look forward to meeting them.

Meanwhile, I am home planning the trip and thinking (of course) of knitting projects to bring on my journey. Reading through the Turkish Cultural Foundation’s website I of course light on Turkish knitted stockings, where I discover to my delight that Anna Zilboorg (whose book Marvelous Mittens is a deep well of inspiration) has written a book on them, called Fancy Feet. I do believe a trip to the library is in order.

Of course, this means Anna has herself been to Turkey, and now I want to go drink tea with her and knit and talk about Turkish textiles. For now, her book will have to do.

Every year, there is at least one week (sometimes several) that I know will be a significant challenge for me, whether due to circumstance or my own tendency to push myself to the breaking point. This week (Sept 12-18, 2011) is shaping up to be one of those weeks.

This week I’m flying out to Cincinnati to give two presentations to my peers on Drupal and content migration. Sunday, I’m running my first half marathon.

I’m nervous, excited, scared.