Writing and creativity—like life— can be a form of birth. It gets messy, the pregnancy wanes precariously until one is tempted to just induce oneself into labor in order to have the damn thing and be done with it.
But, it doesn’t work that way. It has to cook a while.
It can take courage. And a lot of tolerance of the bloat.
Lately I started getting back into painting. I naturally gravitate toward music and over time developed a bearable confidence in my own style, but painting is an entirely different animal.
I once took a class on still life and found that I am not nearly patient nor still enough for this activity. I had to languish for hours before I somehow stumbled (accidentally, mind you) upon the one stroke which made the painting finally—thank GOD almighty—come to life.
I just don’t have the disposition to go through that kind of ulcer-inducing experience on a regular, voluntary basis.
So I began abstract painting. I found it to be more in line with my personality—raw expression, color, motion, spontaneity, no rules. But recently, I wanted to try something new. I began percolating, looking this way and that at various things in my home, nature, and within my regular turbulent, emotional constitution for a new form of creativity. I began to get some ideas and headed to the local art store.
And then it started.
That part where you realize that when you thought you were doing something miniscule, your psyche apparently interpreted the experience as the possible moment of some transcendental nirvana. Because quite suddenly you notice that a posse resembling an all-out Guantanamo day-pass suddenly surrounds and overtakes your mind like you are a George W. Bush look-alike.
And before you know it, you are completely tied up to a metal chair, precariously placed in a puddle of water. And the Guantanamo day-picnickers are all sweaty with bulging muscles and grease stains on their hands which you just know came from the fun-house of torturous delights that have been built just for you. They begin to sneerily smile at you as they plug in the electrodes, rubbing them together in front of your eyes as sparks fly in demonstration of the lightning about to go through your moist, tepid body.
And then your mother walks into the room and stands next to them with a look of condescension—the kind of glance which goes directly through your soul, then your former high school teacher who once told you that your drawings looked like one-dimensional cartoons comes in to remind you that you are entirely out of your league.
Van Gough appears next and shakes his head in disgust over your color selection, and Rembrandt attempts to patronize your ridiculous sketches, doing the Jesus face palm at your profane scribbles into negative space.
jesus face palm
Still entirely overwhelmed by the turnout, you then see those very serious art students walking directly to the “professional” section of art supplies in army boots and purple hair, all of which boast of how the craft is part of their very personhood. They brush past you, intent on the aisle which they could clearly reach blindfolded for in that aisle rests the one, unpronounceable medium to complete their inevitable, million dollar, gallery-bound creation veiled within their basement.
And finally, a mirage of yourself appears beside the humming electrodes, your mother, your sophomore art teacher, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, the shopping, modern-day Michelangelo’s. Your mirage-self begins reciting the most godawful crap like that kid from The Shining, “Redrum! Redrum! Redrum!” and completes the rant with incessantly vomiting like the poisoned, dead girl in The Sixth Sense.
the little shit
Somewhere during this mental hijacking, it hit me. This is not the rodeo I signed up for. I just wanted to try another goddamn medium not go through some sort therapy session in the yarn aisle, clutching my bosom in between whimpers.
I began to realize that this kind of thing happens all the time in life. It’s a jungle up there. Most of us have an on-call zoo ready and able to contribute their mad-hatter insight: going on a job interview, writing a paper, talking with friends, raising the preschooler, stating what we need, setting boundaries, asking for space, time, a hug, going on a bike ride, looking in the fridge, dealing with family, writing this blog, reading a book, in a conversation with our beloved, pursuing spirituality, going over finances, looking at the future, looking at the past, contemplating our careers, listening to our dreams, even taking nap for godsake. —–
The mind is constantly shitting all over itself.
In some situations it can be more loud: trying something new, being engaged in something that intrinsically means a great deal to us, or fearing what others may think of us.
Through some kind of miracle, during the schizophrenic-like flanking in Michael’s Art Supply store, I oddly thought of the concept of Mindfulness. As a side note, this did not come to me because I blabbed and grabbed something spiritual, or because my Qi was perfectly aligned with Jupiter, or because I encountered a troll with a riddle.
It just popped into my head since I had to learn it to when they took my gym pass away.
I remembered that I can choose to stop and examine the shit the mind has dumped, or I can thank it for sharing, and still choose what I want. I don’t have to argue with it, attempt to clean it up, host a conversation, shove it away, pray it away, yoga-it away, starve it away, or try to bless it along with a power animal. No, I accept that it is there. I do not hate it or judge it. I allow it to be—and then I can choose to take it apart or to take a small step still in the direction of what I value—in this case—it was some sort of vinyl lettering which had some potential in creative expression, but that remains to be seen (another post entirely). The point was—I tried something new in order to go further in creativity and fun, both of which I value highly.
Because becoming integrated, authentic, and moving toward ones core values is risky—be it art, spirituality, relationships, education, healing from trauma, creating the life that is truly reflective of who I am and what I love. I think the risk increases when I am focused not on my own satisfaction and pleasure, but on the responses of others.
If I am not allowing myself to be fueled by my interests, talents, pleasures, values, and radical self-care and self-compassion—then perhaps I will not be alive to my own life, experience, relationships, spirituality, creativity, choices, authenticity, transcendence, and ultimate fulfillment and destiny.
When I practice radical acceptance and self-compassion toward all of myself—my moods, intolerance, desire for change, feelings of anger, sadness, disappointment in loved ones, anxiety, love, crankiness, the need for time alone, time of being held, time of listening, time of acknowledging hard feelings—I am more grounded and therefore more prepared for the clarity of choices I have with myself, with everyday interactions, and with my loved ones.
Practicing self-affirmation and kindness can even help me become more equipped to welcome the deep, intrinsic honesty of others as they pursue their own life-creation—the kind of honesty that would make all of our grandmothers cringe. Well, not mine. She has an immunity, inoculated by a devotion to Nancy Grace. And O.J. Simpson (still), but one would hope this is not the norm. Still, if anyone ever wonders how CNN stays on the air, look no further than Grams.
Grams’ hero
Speaking for myself, I can easily to get caught up in performing for others—real or imaginary—to the detriment of loving myself into authenticity. And sometimes I have found that loving myself is most nourishing when I employ it even when others do not like me (real or imagined) or are upset by me. This is my most difficult test. Because everyone has to like me, you see.
But I deserve my own kindness and unconditional love regardless of what is going on around me, within me, or in the personal lives of others.
I have wondered if in the pursuit of being a good human, there is the counter-intuitive notion of merging and acknowledging the polarized, radical contributors in my mind in order to stop the war between them. The Guantanamo day-pass inmates are making it in there somewhere and there will be days that I will feel I am truly George W. Bush gleefully uttering words like “shock and awe” and “shame….shame…on….?”…as I drop a bomb on someone’s head.
And some days I will be like this in a proverbial sense. Some days I will be George. And some days I will want to hook myself up to self-destructive electrodes; and some days I will. But if I can attempt to employ radical acceptance of all of these very human fragments—even as simple as an affirmation (I am happy I was honest today even when it was difficult; I am proud of myself for stopping when I was tired instead of punishing my body; I am glad I did not strangle that guy who brazenly beat his horn when my car stalled; I blew out the match before burning down the sunroom because of the ants), I could very well free the space necessary to still head toward what I ultimately value.
For all other days: I will get the hell out of Michael’s.
alotmorewherethatcamefrom 