By Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew
Vietnamese Buddhist monk and teacher Thich Nhat Hanh told this story in his book The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching :
When a young man wanted to learn how to paint lotus flowers, he approached a master for instruction. The master led him to a lotus pond, inviting him to sit. The young man saw flowers bloom when the sun was high, and he watched them return to buds when night fell. The next morning, he did the same. When one lotus flower wilted, its petals falling to the water, he observed the stalk, the stamen, the leaves, then moved on to the next. For ten days. On the eleventh day, the master asked, “Are you ready?” He replied, “I will try.” The master gave him a brush, and although the young man’s style was childlike, his technique naïve, the lotus he drew was beautiful.
He had become the lotus. The painting emerged from that union.
I work with a lot of writers who despair of ever being “good enough.” I sympathize; I’m well-versed in my own artistic limitations. An uninspired vocabulary, untrustworthy grammatical instincts, a propensity to play it safe with voice and form—I often feel unqualified to publish, much less teach. At times seeing my work in print reminds me of walking around in public as a not-conventionally-beautiful woman, painfully self-conscious about my non-existent style, blemished skin, and kitchen haircut. It takes a concerted effort to turn instead to arenas of beauty I value (courage, kindness, honesty), trusting that these cultivate the inner beauty, in body and in prose, that I seek.
The impact of the apprentice’s painting sprang from affection cultivated by careful attention. No subject can be rendered artfully, the master knew, without the artist first following his affection to its source. Down at the pond, the novice came to know the lotus’s newness and demise, how morning sun ignited it, how it wilted at noon and glowed under the stars. Attention born of love lends art its life-spark.
I’m reminded of memorial services where grieving grandchildren eulogize their grandparents; up at the lectern, the awkward teenager pushes through shock and nerves to read memories of his dear Nana and sets the whole congregation weeping. Or I think of my parents’ love letters, which now that they’ve died my sister and I read aloud because their voices spring from the page; they seem so alive they might as well be waiting for my phone call. When I taught seventh grade English, the struggling students always floored me during our poetry unit; unlike the performative emoting of “good” students, their poems were raw, real, and powerful. Everyone has the potential to stir readers’ hearts, regardless of talent or skill. Everyone.
Genuine, openhearted engagement—what beloved Minneapolitan writer Brenda Ueland called “interestingness”—is the basic ingredient of a fruitful creative process. “Everybody is talented, original and has something important to say” is the title of the first chapter in her excellent 1938 book, If You Want to Write . At its core, art is egalitarian. “The writer has a feeling and utters it from his true self. The reader reads it and is immediately infected. He has exactly the same feeling. This is the whole secret of enchantment, fascination.” Interestingness, interestedness, dedication, attention, affection, truth: These are infectious, and the prerequisite to effective writing.
I’ve written daily for thirty-five years. When I look back, what I most cherish over all that time isn’t publication or artistic triumph or even the times readers have approached me, saucer-eyed with awe, to thank me for my books. No, I most treasure how writing wakes me up. The practice asks me to look closely at what is , to slow down, to sustain a lingering, curious relationship with my subject—to be fully present. At its essence writing is contemplation, and like any contemplative practice it brings me more alive.
This critical, joyful dimension of writing is in easy reach: Just head down to the pond. Pay attention to what you love. Observe, be curious, be patient, grow in affection. Become a student of your subject, whatever it is—a flower, a secret hurt, a niggling question, your left toe. Paint it plainly, lovingly. Later, if you want you can gain proficiency, polish your style, and acquire literary flourish, but know these are additives. The best starting place for art is who we are, in bare, sustained relationship with what we love.
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Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew is the author of three books on writing: Writing the Sacred Journey: The Art and Practice of Spiritual Memoir ; Living Revision ; and The Release: Finding Creativity and Freedom After the Writing is Done , due out this fall. Her creative work includes Swinging on the Garden Gate: A Memoir of Bisexuality & Spirit , now in its second edition, and the novel Hannah, Delivered . She is a founding member of The Eye of the Heart Center , where she teaches writing as a transformational practice. You can connect with her here and learn more at her website .
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