Guest Post: How Writing Becomes Sacred

This is a guest post by Isabella Mori, a therapist who blogs about psychology, creativity, spirituality and social justice at change therapy.

Some of my clients are members of Overeaters Anonymous, a group similar to Alcoholics Anonymous that helps people whose eating disorders – anything from binge eating to anorexia and bulimia – have gotten the better of them. Members of the OA program are encouraged to use eight “tools” on a regular, even daily basis to help them stay the course. one of those tools is writing. It has been very interesting to gain insight into that, and I think the way it is used can be helpful for anyone.

While this tool has many applications in OA (for example, writing an inventory of one’s good and challenging points in going through daily life; writing articles for OA newsletters; daily emails to a program buddy), I’d like to point out one in particular. OA uses two books as its central text, Alcoholics Anonymous’ “Big Book” (a “design for living” for people with serious alcohol problems), and the OA Twelve and Twelve, which outlines OA’s interpretation of the 12 steps and 12 traditions, the “spine” of the OA program.

OA members are encouraged to study the 12 steps and 12 traditions over and over again, in what I see as a sort of Lectio Divina. Lectio Divina is a practice of slowly, reverently and meditatively reading a spiritually significant text (all the “anonymous” programs are decidedly spiritual albeit not religious). But it doesn’t stop there; members are then encouraged to engage in writing about the text (a sort of Scriptio Divina?). And this is where the magic comes in.

When read with an open heart, an important text can reveal layers and layers and layers. The heart opens, and then the text opens. “I don’t remember ever reading this passage!” is something that I’ve often heard – from members who have read the book at least 10 times. And as the heart opens and the text opens, the pen opens. With the text as inspiration, words flow out from a place that is deep, honest, lively and life-giving; words of passion: of painful regret, delighted discovery, profound connection, all-embracing love, long-repressed hurt.

A deeply spiritual friend of mine, a radical-liberal Baptist who has spent many hours listening to the heart-rending stories of people living in Vancouver’s poverty and drug-riddled Downtown Eastside, calls these stories “living scripture.” I believe that all stories told with an open heart are living scripture – sacred text. There is a beautiful spiral then, from reading with an open heart, to writing with an open heart, to producing sacred text.

Experienced in this manner, everything becomes sacred. A children’s poem that is read, or a recipe, written down lovingly (as Kimberley Snow shows so beautifully in her book In Buddha’s Kitchen). And in its profound intimacy and privacy, this writing almost comes out the other end and becomes public. I don’t think it’s possible to truly connect with ourselves and with the divine (whatever you want to call it; from the traditional Christian God to the new age universe to the values held dear by atheists) without connecting with what’s going on in the rest of the world and engaging in some sort of social activism, however modest. That is one of the ways in which I see a direct connection between the personal writing that I’ve discussed here and the work in which Alison encourages us all to engage.

Perhaps this little poem (a small shard of Scriptio Divina?) shows a bit of that. I wrote it a few years ago; it shows my personal struggles but also, I believe, how they connect with the world (not being present to the world around me) and with throw-away culture specifically.

broken little plate
was so long in my home;
now it’s torn in half
and all i did was throw it away.
didn’t think twice.
just left it like it was,
with a bit of leftover food,
wrapped in saran wrap,
and threw it in the garbage.

now my heart breaks open,
an earthquake under it,
and i ask, with grief or guilt,
was that all i could do?
could i not have thanked that plate
for all its work and beauty over all these years?

broken little plate
i am sorry
you were the victim of my thoughtlessness,
another one,
a victim of
my weakness that leaves open, still too often,
the gates to floods of thoughts and feelings,
questions, riddles, nagging spiders in my brain,
that when it happened,
when your last hour came,
i was not present.

perhaps those gates
are wounds, gaping,
still, still not healed.

Alison here, thanks so much for the beautiful post Isabella. Also, I'll be performing a piece from my memoir at Patrick's Cabaret in Minneapolis on November 20th and 21st, 2009 at 8pm. For more information about my work please visit my website.