An Autobiography in Blog Posts: III. Williamsburg, Virginia, and a Desert Experience | Dreaming Beneath the Spires

I cried; I was furious with Roy. We were living there because he worked in a very esoteric area of mathematics, and the premier cluster of mathematicians in his area were at William and Mary.

I said, “Please quit, so we can live where we wish. Breed dogs. Let’s buy a farm. A Christmas tree farm. An asparagus and blueberry farm. Train bonsai!” (Yeah, creative, aren’t I?) Anything that will get us out of being chained to this materialistic, house-proud backwater, where everyone looks immaculately groomed, their houses and cars are immaculate, and few have read a book all year. Or written one.

And the latter category, sadly, included me.

* * *

And then, and then, the manuscript which I had sent the New York editor and agent did not interest either of them in the final draft. I lay face down on my carpet, and wanted to die.

Oh, I was so mad at Roy for not providing more help with child care and housework so I could write a good manuscript. The sadness caused weight gain, constant colds and coughs, debilitating allergies, insomnia, depression. The house was a mess.

A desert experience!!

Spiritually, the desert is the most richly blessed of places. I am certain of it. It may not be rich—will not be rich socially, or in terms of approbation, attention, success, friendship, perhaps not even economically.  Ah, but spiritually, you can grow fat when the rest of your life is thin gruel.

I was sick, I decided–spiritually, emotionally, even psychologically, since I was then on high dose of anti-depressants!! I needed the great Physician. I committed to spending 90 minutes a day in prayer in Bible study in 1996. I did not transform immediately, by any means. If anything, this commitment which I fulfilled before writing and which soaked up nervous energy, made me tireder, crosser, more anxious, highly-strung and frustrated in the short, even medium, run.

* * *

I could diagnose my spiritual plight, but was powerless to do anything about it.

  Jeremiah 17 “Cursed is the one who trusts in man,
who draws strength from mere flesh
and whose heart turns away from the LORD.
⁶ That person will be like a bush in the wastelands;
they will not see prosperity when it comes.
They will dwell in the parched places of the desert,
in a salt land where no one lives.

 ⁷ “But blessed is the one who trusts in the LORD,
whose confidence is in him.
⁸ They will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.”

(I am delighted to declare that verses 7-8 describe me now).

Some trust in chariots and some in horses, Psalm 20:7.I was putting all my hope and faith in chariots and horses. In editors, in agents, in having a writers’ group as I did in Minneapolis, in networking. In living in a place with good theatres, visiting writers, literary festivals. In the stimulation of friends who read and wrote, and the creative exchange of ideas.

I taught Creative Writing at William and Mary with a friend, a writer who lived on a farm in the boondocks, and just steadfastly wrote books whereas I, putting faith in networking and the big break was successfully applying for fellowships to, and dashing around to idyllic writers colonies, the Vermont Studio Centre and The Virginia Centre for the Creative Arts in Sweet Briar. And to writers’ conferences: Bread Loaf, Wesleyan, Chenango Valley, Mount Holyoke. I should have just been writing!!

Just write, just write. Lots of wisdom to that. But I guess I was stuck.

It took a long period of dreams being crushed and broken for me to trust in God and no one else, not even, especially not, myself for the fulfilment of my dreams.

* * *

Eventually, eventually…little miracles began to happen, and my life began to change.

Well, I laid the manuscript aside, and through 1997, writing for an hour a day, wrote a tight, contorted story of early childhood, here and here, which won a National Endowment for the Arts award of $20,000. In this writing I did to take my mind off my stymied manuscript, my writing style came together, became instinctive.

I began to win writing prizes again, fellowships to colonies and conferences, and to publish all over: The Washington Post, London Magazine, Commonweal, The Christian Century, my pieces were picked up by The Best Spiritual Writing annual anthologies. I taught Creative Writing at William and Mary, though did not find it compatible with writing. Well, have never yet found anything that is!!

And life went on. I had two lovely happy girls. We bought a beautiful house in a lovely neighbourhood, Kingsmill, and lived there for 9 years. We travelled extensively—I craved the old world, art, culture, history. We visited Japan, Israel, New Zealand, Switzerland, Costa Rica, Italy, Spain, Ireland, Holland, leaving Williamsburg as much as we could. Roy was earning well enough, and we were doing well enough through shrewd investing!

* * *

And surprisingly, what God used to help me out of the pit when I struggling with marriage, and with keeping up with the basics of running an orderly house (in which I was desperately failing!) was a teaching and speaking ministry.

I was asked to speak at events like women’s breakfasts, and evening banquets! I was asked to teach Bible studies, and taught four long, exhausting Beth Moore studies, which, with their saturation in Scripture, were an important part in turning my life around.

And why should someone struggling herself with the basics of marriage, being an attentive mum, and running an orderly house grow through teaching others? God’s mercy and sense of humour!! A depressed woman sharing her Prozac of the Word of God!

And I was sharing what was most precious to me–my time and intellectual, spiritual, and emotional energy. In return, I was blessed with stability in my life, emotions and faith; good friends; and deepened roots in God’s word.  That is ever God’s way. Share your limited oil and flour, your limited loaves and fishes, and they will be multiplied.

Another way I was blessed by sharing out of my poverty was that Paul Millersuggested an editing for discipling trade. And this discipling over five years was absolutely life-changing. I was also mentored by a retired pastor’s wife, Lolly Dunlap. As a couple they had done 4 or 5 people’s work, running a church, a radio ministry, schools, centres of learning disability, a ranch for youth, but now she lived in Scripture and got great nourishment from it. That was inspiring.

And I started gardening. Planted several fruit trees, thousands of spring bulbs, hellebores, hostas, a rare specimen garden. I so enjoyed watching them come up stronger each year in that garden I had for 9 years that I almost made peace with staying in Williamsburg.

* * *

I went on a retreat in November 2003 to a retreat centre called Richmond Hill, and picked up a book called I Lift up my Eyes to the Hills,coincidentally the same title as the unfinished book I was drafting. I realized that I had found my answer and abruptly left the next day.

It was about praying with faith for every area of one’s life. Praying, not hoping!! Though it was my writing I worried about, old dreams came uncovered. As beached whales long for immense salty seas, so in America, too fast, too new, too scary for me, I longed for ancient, low-key, gentle, literary Oxford, and began to pray about moving there.

I prayed for soul mates; the book suggested that you offer friendship to those God has placed in your life as you wait for the “glorious friends” you might want, and I did just that, made some good friends, and was, I was guess, happy.

I started praying very specifically for creativity like a rushing river, a prayer answered a little later than the other two.

* * *

In God’s time, miracles happen.

Roy wrote a brilliant paper that he worked on off on for 10 years. It won two prestigious prizes, one of them for the best paper in his area in the last 3 years. And finally fellowships and job offers poured in. (Well, just as well he didn’t become a dog breeder!)

One in Manchester.

And one—yay—in Oxford!!

Without desert experiences. one would never learn to lean, rather than run in one’s own strength and exhaust oneself.

Who is this who comes out of the desert, leaning on her beloved? (Song of Songs, 8:5). Yeah, it was me!