I’ve always loved that Yeats poem, Second Coming. For me, the first three lines epitomize how I see my life when I drift away from my God concept.
Turning and turning in a widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
The poem says so much more, but those three lines, taken alone, I can apply directly to me. The other day, though, they took on a new meaning for me with regards to my novel. I suddenly realized that my story is turning and turning, getting ever further away from the center, the falconer, me. As the distance grows, I lose the story, the voices of the characters. I need to pull them in and hold them close, I need to listen to them breathing and feel their foreheads for fever. I need to know what they had for lunch and how they feel about the upcoming holidays. I’m the center. If I want them to, they will have things to tell me. If I want them to.
I have to look forward to seeing them the way I looked forward to having my daughter here for Thanksgiving. I have to wake up wondering where they are and what they’re doing. I have to want to ask them out to play.