Newsletter: September 2024
Greetings again, dear web friend
I was listening to an interview with Bob Dylan recently. The interviewer was celebrating his old and most famous songs and asked, ‘Why don’t you write more of those?’
Dylan simply said, ‘Because I can’t.’
He said he couldn’t write them now. ‘They were magical’, he said. ‘Where did they come from? I don’t know. But I couldn’t do it now.’
And so the interviewer asked, ‘Does that make you sad?’
Dylan said, ‘It was a season. I’m not sad I wrote them, I’m glad I wrote them – but accept that I couldn’t do it now. It’s not in me to do that now.’
There was a surprising intimacy in Dylan’s replies; and a quality of gentleness I hadn’t heard before. Here was the quiet acceptance of reality about life’s seasons, and the different possibilities offered by each. It was Jung who said, ‘What is true in the morning may be a lie in the afternoon.’ And perhaps we can re-work that to read, ‘What was possible in the morning may be impossible in the afternoon – and vice versa.’
Those last three words are important. It’s not all subtraction or loss. The afternoon brings different possibilities, rather than no possibilities: it’s take and give, it’s give and take.
I’ve felt this recently reading my book, The Journey Home, which was originally published as The Beautiful Life.
I should say straight away that this is unusual. I never read my books. I have never sat down to read any of them after publication. But I have appreciated returning to The Journey Home, reading a little bit, perhaps a page or two, each morning. First, I am amazed that I wrote it, which is nice. But I am equally aware I couldn’t write it now.
It’s not the funniest book I’ve written, which would probably be Shelf Life.
And it’s not the best storytelling, which is probably the under-the-radar Abbot Peter back story, Another Bloody Retreat.
And it’s not the most accessible, life-nurturing stuff I’ve written, which may be Solitude: Recovering the Power of Alone.
But while these things are subjective – you may beg to differ, with very good reason – I think The Journey Home is probably my best book. It has a clarity and simplicity of writing; a deft combination of brutal and gentle; grit and vision; humour and depth. The Guardian review called it ‘a rugged, spiky path of ridicule and challenge’, and the thing is, I couldn’t write it now. I couldn’t manage that focus.
The times they are a-changin’, as Dylan reminds us, and it is human lives that bring me to life now rather than putting words on a page. Today, I am better at sitting with people than I was back then: it’s take and give, it’s give and take.
As you know well, life’s seasons differ. You may be amazed at some of the things you’ve done in the past; I hope you are. You have moved very particular mountains. ‘How did I manage that!?’ I often hear people say. But maybe you’re also aware you cannot do those things now. You can do other things; or perhaps be other things. Maybe being takes greater priority than doing. There’s a time for everything.
What I hope accompanies you through the different seasons of life is the deep shadow of hope; and the infinitely creative universe. These will serve you well. Those who walk in the shadow of hope are open to present creation. The universe is not always kind; but it is infinitely creative. Whatever the season of our life, its creativity in our being is endless; making different, making new. Dylan couldn’t write ‘Blowin’ in the wind’ today, ‘but I can do other things,’ he says with a half-smile.
Creation never ceases.
And just a quick tip-off before I go. I’m leading a retreat at Sheldon in Devon between 18th and 22nd August 2025, with the title, ‘The Learning of Love’. Find the details here: The Learning of Love.
And now, in the kind shadow of hope, I send my very best seasonal greetings to you, whatever your season.
Something lost, something found.
Simon x
Photo by Artem Saranin
