Writing with Rilke

Rilke, Jen Rose Yokel, and The Artist's Way

Rainer Maria Rilke has always fascinated me. An Austrian poet writing in the early twentieth century, he seemed to understand something elemental about the creative life. I’ve read Letters to a Young Poet multiple times, and even though I’m not young in years, I still feel like a young poet.

 “No one can advise or help you—no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write." Ranier Maria Rilke

I always laugh a little when I read this. Would I really have to die if I were forbidden to write? That feels a bit dramatic—maybe that’s why I’m still a “young” poet! Still, I understand the call to go inward, to find the stillness, and to learn to listen to it. There’s something sacred in appreciating silence.

He also talks a lot about loneliness, and the idea that being alone doesn’t have to mean loneliness. I am alone a lot. I wake up alone, eat most of my meals alone, and go to bed alone. It is simply a fact of life for those of us who have lost partners.

But aloneness can foster creativity. Lately, I’ve found I enjoy writing while walking. Technology can be miraculous: I open the Notes app, tap the microphone, and talk to my phone like it’s an old friend. Later, I copy and paste my ramblings into a word processor and shape them into something more refined. I’m often surprisingly productive this way. There’s something about walking—soaking in the sun, noticing cactus blooms, feeling the wind—that opens me up.

And when I return to my peacock-blue lounge chair, where the editing happens, the solitude feels less heavy. I’ve listened to myself. I’ve kept myself company. I’ve honored the process.

Of course, there are still moments of loneliness. When they come, Rilke’s words offer comfort:

Pushing Through
by Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock
in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
I am such a long way in I see no way through,
and no space: everything is close to my face,
and everything close to my face is stone.

 I don’t have much knowledge yet in grief
so this massive darkness makes me small.

You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in:
then your great transforming will happen to me,
and my great grief cry will happen to you. 

In the last four years, I’ve often felt like I was pushing through solid rock, small within the vastness of grief. I’m drawn to those final lines—his confidence in something greater, something fierce, something capable of transforming grief into something holy. A gift. A sacrifice.

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This summer, I’m joining Jen Rose Yokel’s Summer Art Club, a 12-week The Artist’s Way book group that begins June 1 right here on Substack. If you’re a writer, painter, musician, crafter—or any kind of creative—join us. It’s a beautiful way to follow Rilke’s call to go inward, and discover what’s waiting there.