Since I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for 6 months, I’ve missed out on telling you so much—namely, all that I’ve learned in the meantime, in my reading and in my discussions with others.  I feel like I’m growing so fast, I can’t keep up with it all…and that’s a good thing!

I’ve switched gears for my second novel.  I’ve rewritten my “planned” novel about the women of Noah’s Flood twice through now, and it’s not working.  Apparently, no one wants a Bible story that reads like HBO’s Deadwood or Rome. So, I’m putting them on the back burner for now, and I’m taking up another topic.  I’m headed into exciting new territory with this one, and the research has been fascinating.  I’ll keep the project under wraps for now, but I’m sure you’ll begin to guess the topics within, because I’ll raise the questions here in this blog first.

Maybe you’re like me, in that you, too, want to find some meaning in life.  Perhaps you’ve already found that meaning.

I came across this lovely poem the other evening, as I was reading through Czeslaw Milosz’s New and Collected Poems (1931-2001), and I thought I would share.  If you’re like me, you’ll print it out and cut-and-paste it into that journal you keep for things such as this.

Whether or not you believe in heaven or in the supernatural, you’ll be able to feel Milosz’s struggle of knowing what’s really out there, what’s really going on.


—When I die, I will see the lining of the world.
The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.
The true meaning, ready to be decoded.
What never added up will add up,
What was incomprehensible will be comprehended.

—And if there is no lining to the world?
If a thrush on a branch is not a sign,
But just a thrush on the branch?  If night and day
Make no sense following each other?
And on this earth there is nothing except this earth?

—Even if that is so, there will remain
A word wakened by lips that perish,
A tireless messenger who runs and runs
Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies,
And calls out, protests, screams.

The need to know is so great within us, don’t you think?  Where do you find your meaning?  Have you found it yet?

[Post image: Varied thrush in winter by lkwolfson on stock.xchng]


  1. Sara
    Mar 05, 2011

    Perfect post for a Saturday morning skim of the ‘net with a cup of coffee in hand.
    You’ve given me a lot to think about today and for that, I thank you!

  2. Lindsey
    Mar 05, 2011

    Oh, wow … sigh. I love, love, love this. Thank you. xo

  3. Sylvia
    Mar 05, 2011

    Love the poem Elissa. I’m afraid I’m still searching.

  4. Elissa
    Mar 05, 2011

    I’m glad you guys liked it, too! It just struck me, like, “Wow, he captures that passionate longing for meaning so well!” xo

  5. f451
    Mar 06, 2011

    I heard something this morning that struck me.
    The two greatest days of a persons life are:

    The day they were born.
    And the day they discover the reason why.

    • Elissa
      Mar 06, 2011

      That’s beautiful…I don’t know that I’ll ever fully (beyond a shadow of a doubt) know the reason why, though…so at least I get the one day, right? LOL.

  6. Don Rogers
    Mar 07, 2011

    Beautiful. Elissa, I’ve already decided this journey is on-going. It will last for as long as I’m in this body. That’s OK with me. It has been a wild ride and I love every minute. There is always something new around the corner. Have you seen the movie, “The Living Matrix”? I think you would enjoy it.

    • Elissa
      Mar 07, 2011

      No, I haven’t seen it. I’ll look it up…thanks, Don!

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The quote I live by

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.
--Rainer Maria Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet

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