Often when editing my writing, I come across a wonderful phrase that just does not fit. I cut it out and put it in a file called "discards." Maybe I should call the file "tidbits" because some are great phrases or ideas that just do not fit where I put them. In poetry, it may be a nice image that expresses a tone that belongs in a different poem. Today's example came in my novel where a girl in the middle of an identity crisis says this to a friend who is being torn from his roots for the first time:

"For what it's worth, I've started thinking about negotiating identity like sailing. You are in the boat, part of the boat, with the wind carrying you one way and the waves the other. Somehow you steer a course that carries you toward your destination."

She offers a good picture of going along with the push and pull of negotiation. The trouble is, that's the kind of acceptance she needs not the kind of "willingness to be" that she has at this point in the story.

Her friend's response is that he has sailed in a boat that has a mind of its own, especially in weather. Working with that boat is much more like them at this point, fighting the waves and the wind and the boat and themselves.

The section got rewritten so that both talk about what it feels like to be pulled apart, pushed away from where you thought you were going.

Still, I like the picture of sailing for anything we are negotiating: identity, a challenging problem, a difficult relationship. The situation, the water, is acknowledged. We can't change what the water and waves do no matter what flow we'd like to see.

We can't change other factors either: the wind is going to blow. Something presses us, pushes us, moves us away from our destination, making the path rough, disrupting our balance.

A sailboat rides the water, uses the wind, and travels. Tacking back and forth will take the boat almost head on into the waves. Giving in to the situation and keeping a sense of goal and direction work together to negotiate the course.

I came across another great line in a novel that is sitting in a drawer. In that case, the character was closer to understanding her self and her choices, but is way too calm about it. When a friend laments that anger and sadness are masking his path, my character says, "The clear path is not always the best. [Another person] offered me a way that was clear and straight. It was where it led that I could not go. I chose shadow and a bend in the road."

I love her sense that a straight clear path is not always the best. It tempts us because it's clear. We can see where it goes. We can trace the bumps and humps. But it isn't always the right direction. And when it is not, what we end up choosing may be a shadowed, clouded path. The road we end up on will climb a hill and disappear, or turn a bend in the forest and not show us what comes next.

If I get back to that story, the line will have to get reworked. She will lament the bend in the road, feel fear, or at least dis-ease, that she cannot see the shape of the path or where it is going to end up.

In order to take the shadowed path, we have to acknowledge the temptation to clarity, and accept the uncertainty.

On Monday, there was a thick layer of crusty snow with just enough fresh fluff to make it good cross-country skiing weather. My skis sunk down enough to mark where I had been, but not enough to make the going tough. I left a clear track to follow. With the shifting temperatures, however, the track would disappear the next day, and conditions shifted.

We are always negotiating with waves and wind, snow and melting, our desires and the possibilities. We often fight the realities. But sometimes, we find in ourselves a wisdom we did not know we possessed and let it guide our way.
Cathy Hird is a minister who lives on a farm near Walters Falls.