I was reading the other day in Matthew Fox's book The Hidden Spirituality of Men (why? a topic for another blog post, certainly) and I came across this quote of D.H. Lawrence:
"What a catastrophe, what a maiming of life when it was made a personal, merely personal feeling, taken away from the rising and setting of the sun, and cut off from the magic connection of the solstice and the equinox! This is what is the matter with us, we are bleeding at the roots, because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars, and love is a grinning mockery, because poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the tree of life, and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table."
I read it and then went back to the attribution. D.H. Lawrence? Really? Must be some other D.H. Lawrence, not the D.H. of Lady Chatterly and Women in Love. But then I thought about it. Yes, of course. To write the way he wrote, to see the way passion can capture us, demand our attention, sweep us away, he must have and love a connection to the mysteries of nature. Love is a grinning mockery when we separate it from all that is its source in the very essence and nature of the universe and expect it to stand alone in a vacuum of merely human interchange.
It made me think of the deep wells that exist in writers and all of the interchange of ideas, thoughts and emotions that flow beneath the surface of what is actually produced and birthed in the written word. Here's to cultivating those deep wells this year as I allow the richness and the mysteries of the earth and sun and stars to open to me and to somehow dwell in the writing that I create.