Some Questions Worth Wondering
One advantage of meeting up with other makers in a friendly atmosphere, at lunch or in a workshop– is that we can rediscover that we really are all in the same boat– that none of us, no matter how accomplished, are in a sublime world where paintings appear out of nowhere– (well, rarely, but not until one has been working for a long time).
Today I am thinking about some questions that work for me when I am struggling in my studio– but I begin by vanquishing this question:
What will people think?
Under a Spell
I have long wondered at the ability for writing, (and by this I mean on paper with a tool in my hand) to put me under a spell. Above I am working with variations of a short poem by Antonio Machado. Even the words of the poem, without knowing the meaning, have a trance quality: everyone who moves on walks like Jesus, on the sea.
Creativity and Boredom
When someone says: Boring! –it is a one word sentence (usually uttered with both syllables drawn out in a singsong voice) that immediately dismisses whatever came before. From this perspective, saying that something is boring is a condemnation. Boredom is a state of mind to be avoided.
I am going to offer an alternate view for makers: boredom as a door into depth, insight and manifestation.
Spontaneity and Improvisation
I am teaching two day classes at our local art store. In spite of my initial resistance to the cramped quarters and short time frame, it is rewarding. I leave with a full heart from the students that show up and the generosity of Preston Arts. It is a community art store run by artists, and owned by a man who strongly resembles Mr. Rogers (one of my heroes). There is the coffee and danishes all set up for us each morning, with a warm greeting from Mr. Rogers at the beginning of class, and handwritten signs and class lists that could be from the 1950's.*
Wandering
As many of you know, Steven and I have designated "Sabbatical Sundays" as the day we turn off our cell phones and computers, and find another way to enter the day. As much as I love solitude, it is curious to see the extent to which my mind is captured by the impulse to check this or that on my gadgets– fingers and a mind that resist being still. You could say that these Sundays are a kind of mind experiment. One Sunday Steven woke up and said "Let's go east!" This is the day of the week we often get in the car and head out on adventures without the advantage of GPS– and both of us having a tendency to get lost. So without any plan, we left before breakfast and drove through the rolling hills of central Kentucky. I was captured by all the old tobacco barns with the "hex" signs.
New Year's Eve Tidings
This morning before first light, I was greeted by the hoo-hooing of a pair of owls outside our window. I had gone to sleep reading Jung's "Memories, Dreams & Reflections", and his thoughts on death, alchemy and eternity. Perhaps these ideas are more prevalent with the ending of another year, and the mystery of what is beginning. This poem from Rumi came to mind:
Making Order Out of Chaos
Everyone has his or her own way of working. For me there are times when I need to step back from the creative chaos that has taken over my studio, let the paintings germinate, and re-create order. This is the phase I am in now. I began this week by cleaning, organizing, sorting– letting go of things I no longer need. This is a somewhat difficult task to stay focused on, as all along the way I come across scraps of papers with phrases like: “old and broken boat” and “the festal intention of these flowers was revealed” * – with no note about where these words came from. Without knowing what it means, something happens when I ponder the festal intention of the flowers. I feel lighter.But it’s almost Thanksgiving, and I must get back to creating order, making room for something to happen.
Mind of Winter
Sometimes I catch myself thinking (with frustration)– what is the next great idea I can come up with for my work? Then I remind myself that paying close attention to the ordinary, the common things– that this is where the magic resides. And this is how I open my eyes.
I was disturbed by the "tree eating machines" that were taking down our ash trees, stricken with the Emerald Ash Borer, and went out for a walk. I went off the path in the woods and found a fallen ash tree lying across the field. When I removed the bark, I discovered these beautiful patterns:
Invocation to the Night
This morning the full moon is on the floor of my sitting room– making me reluctant to turn on any lights. There is no other light like moonlight.
I look forward to this time of year, heading toward the winter solstice. It is the pull toward night, seeing the stars and milky way, and the silence of the desert that draws me back to Ghost Ranch, where I have been going for over twenty years.
In Honor of Galway Kinnell
Galway Kinnell died this week at 87, in his home in Vermont. His death was the same day as the birthday of my best friend from first grade, and the birthday of a student who just had her second baby. It is the anniversary week of the death of my friend and mentor, Angeles Arrien. Birth and death. They are the same door.