Posted in Uncategorized on January 27th, 2012
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Posted in Creativity, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on February 24th, 2011
Have I mentioned too many times the importance of humility in the creative process? If so, I don’t mind; this is such a big concept to get that it is worth reiterating. And it’s something that’s easy to forget; so many of us with control-freak tendencies (um, like, everybody) imperceptibly slip back; the thinking, planning, plotting mind takes over, and we’re back in the territory of writer’s block.
For me, I didn’t know about this whole concept of surrendering until life kicked me to the ground and wouldn’t let me up again until I cried uncle. It took quite a beating for me to finally understand what was going on: I am not in control, not of life, not of my creativity. The only control I have is to surrender and have faith in my ability to connect to a creative source that will never fail or run out. Call it whatever you want: Source, The Universe, The Great Mystery, The Beyond, God… maybe you pray to your fancy pen or your brand new supercomputer… call it what you like.
But what a relief it is: there is a wisdom greater than your own. You don’t have to have the answers. Yet, if you’re able to position yourself in a certain state of consciousness, you can become connected with this greater wisdom, and it can come through you. It comes through in many forms: poetry, fiction, drumming, advice spoken to a friend in need, needlepoint, gardening, deep breathing.
THAT is the important work, attending to your own state of consciousness so you can bring through something from a higher place than ordinary thought. That’s how you become a good writer. (Technique helps, too, but that’s another discussion.)
What helps you get to this state of consciousness? If you’re lucky, you see it without having to suffer first. Maybe you’re raised with some kind of mindfulness practice: meditation, music, art for art’s sake. Maybe you stumble upon it by chance or out of necessity. But most of us have to get kicked in the shins a little bit before we have any real idea what it is to surrender. We have to come to a brick wall and even slam ourselves against it a few times before we get the point that our way of approaching things simply doesn’t work.
But usually, we keep trying before we get the point. We get bruised, we get exhausted, we bleed, we fall down before we’re willing to admit that there’s a wall at all. The wall is ourselves, our old ways of doing things, and it won’t move until we do, until we decide it’s not worth the pain anymore to cling to old ways, and then, it’s not that we move the wall; we simply turn and walk in a different direction. The wall no longer matters; it is no longer who we are.
You have to get humble to turn yourself around. You have to stop struggling. You have to lie down and let the sky rain on you.
The good news is that once you’ve been to this place, you don’t have to go back there in order to get into such a state of surrender. Hopefully, you remember. It’s a good lesson–falling down, getting wet, giving up on what doesn’t serve you, admitting that you’re–what?!–wrong.
Hard times help you know how to write well. They make you humble and therefore open. This is why writers sometimes say they only write during difficult times; difficulty helps us acknowledge that we’re overwhelmed, that we can’t cope, that we’re not as in control as we wanted to think we were. We get low; we get humble.
But it doesn’t have to take an atom bomb to write a good poem. If you cultivate mindful openness, humility, surrender, you don’t need the bomb.
Posted in Creativity, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on November 22nd, 2010
I’m a student of the drums. When I was first learning to open and close the high hat, I jokingly called my left leg “Frankenstein” because of how heavy and clumsy it felt when I tried to make that foot respond. I knew what I wanted it to do, but it didn’t know how to react promptly or gracefully. It came in at the wrong time and moved sloppily. It had no musical vocabulary. All it knew, at that point, were two actions: “move” and “be still.”
By now, my left foot does a little better, although, indeed, its vocabulary remains quite limited compared to experienced drummers. However, a certain degree of technique has integrated into my brain, enough that you might even say that my left foot is now capable of a certain musicality.
The fumbling stage was not “wrong” or “bad.” In fact, it was necessary in order to get to the point where I am now. You have to make the big, sloppy movements before you can make the graceful, refined ones. You have to get in over your head before you can learn to swim.
This transition may happen gradually or may occur as a sudden epiphany: the brain suddenly fuses critical connections and you have a “Eureka” moment. The left foot suddenly can keep time pretty well. It comes in at the right moment, keeps the high hat open for just the right number of seconds, and closes it with precision. Wow. What happened? Or maybe it takes a little longer than that; you practice opening and closing first before trying the technique in an actual song. Either way, it is the transition from thinking into being, from thought into consciousness, from effort into effortlessness, that allows you to play well.
It is the same, of course, with writing. You need to learn the technique, but if that transition doesn’t happen, that ineffable shift into a higher understanding, from effort into instinct, you cannot access true creativity; you can’t sufficiently lose your boundaries between you and your medium, whether it’s language or painting or mathematics. What I mean here is the way that after years of driving, you become one body with the car on your way to and from work, enough that you can’t remember one detail of the trip once you’ve arrived; when I create jewelry, the pliers become an extension of my hands. You become an aspect of the medium and something bigger moves you and it together.
This is the state of genius, and it is available to everyone. Just choose a medium.
But, just as much as we all want to attain this kind of transcendent creative state, everyone has to be Frankenstein before they can be Einstein. You must be a beginner before you can be brilliant, which is why there is so much honor in starting anything new, in putting your hands in the dirt and planting a new seed. As you learn to write, it is critical to know that ignorance is a critical stage of genius. If you resist the “not-knowing” part, if you are fearful of the role of student, if you think it will make you less to expose your lack of expertise, then, in fact, you will remain in ignorance. So, don’t be afraid. Just get in there and get your hands dirty, you budding geniuses, you.
Posted in Uncategorized on September 12th, 2010
Whether it’s archery or football or writing, you are most powerful when you act without concern for results. This is just another way of saying “Abandon hope.”
It is a kind of paradox, isn’t it? When we are extremely concerned with results, especially with winning, performance suffers. When you are engaged in competition–a poetry slam, a football game, an eating contest, a drag race, writing for submission for publication– the trick is to drop your concern with winning, with outcome. This is the surest way to perform at full power.
Try to detach from–to stop caring about–what happens when you’re done writing. This poem uses the metaphor of archery to explain it–
The Need To Win
When an archer is shooting for nothing
He has all his skill.
If he shoots for a brass buckle
He is already nervous.
If he shoots for a prize of gold
He goes blind
Or sees two targets–
He is out of his mind!
His skill has not changed. But the prize
Divides him. He cares.
He thinks more of winning
Than of shooting–
And the need to win
Drains him of power.
–Chuang Tzu (~300 B.C.), translated by Thomas Merton
Posted in Creativity, Jewelry Making, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on August 28th, 2010
I have a theory about why so often the first words that come up when we sit down to write are a kind of “engine revving,” a section of text that we end up tossing out in favor of the more “meaty” material we generate when our creative engine is a little more “warmed up.”
It’s because we’re not the ones who are writing that stuff. That is, those words do not come from our authentic creative selves, but from a more superficial, contracted source, a source that has a certain agenda, that is not willing to be open to the creative process. I’m talking about the ego, the part of us that thinks too much, that plans, that expects specific results.
There are a million reasons anyone might sit down to write. Maybe it’s part of our morning routine. Maybe we want to write the great American novel and win the esteem and/or envy of our peers. Maybe we love the feeling of being in the creative flow. Maybe we have a school or work assignment. Whatever the reason, you simply cannot create fresh, compelling, authentic writing if you have any reason for doing so.
Generally, when we first sit down to write (sculpt, paint, cook, snip, style, decorate), we have expectations, and therefore are in a somewhat contracted state. We are not quite ready, perhaps, to hand over control to the creative process, to humble ourselves to it, to become its tool. But that’s OK; We use that initial writing period to transition from an egoic state into one (hopefully) of pure presence and creativity. Gradually, we let go our ideas about and reasons for doing what we’re doing.
This is why we must be patient with ourselves and, through practice, learn how to open to this creative state willingly, but not forcefully. The moment we get frustrated with our inability to connect to the creative flow, we snap back into thinking and expectation. We again have reasons for writing, and then we cannot enter the stream.
As Pema Chodron says, “Abandon hope.” Abandon your hopes of being a good writer and just write. Abandon your hopes of writing a good story or poem or essay and just write. Abandon your hopes of crafting gorgeous earrings or sculpting a perfect replica of Mount Rushmore or whipping up the perfect omelet. Just bend wire. Just form clay. Just beat eggs. Just hang curtains. Just apply color. Just create. Lose yourself. Perhaps more to the point, forget yourself—your name, your face, your past and future.
Maybe this sounds like a tall order, but writing is an amazing portal into the present moment—maybe even a state of inner peace. But don’t write in order to attain inner peace. Just write.
Posted in Creativity, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on August 17th, 2010
Worry does not prevent Aunt Sue from criticizing your cooking at Thanksgiving dinner. It does not heal your dog’s itchy spot. It will not make your boss nicer, and it will not get you a man. Guaranteed.
No doctor ever prescribed worry (hopefully) to cure your warts or improve your cholesterol. Doesn’t work.
Here’s what worry will do: It will make you conservative, creatively speaking. It will make you stick to dry land. It will make you safe and uptight and boring. If it goes on and on like that, possibly you will cause yourself so much suffering that you will drink too much, watch too much tv, eat too many potato chips, or shoot heroin. It will make you want to be numb, and so you will find something that does that, whether it’s overeating or undereating or overdrinking or overworking or undersleeping or whatever. You will do too much of something or too little of something else.
When you are numb, you are not creative. Being creative means living richly and bravely, of feeling and experiencing and allowing instead of suppressing. Even if you don’t use some misguided coping mechanism, worry is emotionally and creatively paralyzing. Sure, maybe propelled by the energy of fear alone, you can force yourself to finish that report or project, but then, you are creating from the energy of constriction and resistance and suffering, whereas true creative energy is characterized by ease and joy.
That’s not to say that true creativity does not involve effort. However, it is joyful effort—easy effort. It is not Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill. It is not paddling upstream. No force is applied. It is humane—kind, even.
This is how you will recognize true creativity—it involves no fear. It never tries to coerce you into doing anything you don’t want to. It knows enough to not even try to hammer a square peg into a round hole. Duh. It is fun. When you are creative, you salivate. You are turned on. You are peaceful, relaxed, surrendered.
Posted in Creativity, Humor, Jewelry Making, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on February 8th, 2010
More specifically, I want to punch a few holes in some copper or sterling silver, maybe even stainless steel. I could use a hammer and nail, maybe, but that would likely result in sharp edges on one side of the sheet, not to mention a corresponding hole in the wooden tabletop, as well as some pretty sore fingers. And can a nail go through silver or copper or stainless steel, anyway? I have no idea.
Fire Mountain Gems sells a metal hole punch for less than $15. (Really, they do. Check it out: http://www.firemountaingems.com/details.asp?pn=H203084TL ). I know this tool would punch perfect holes for my purposes. However, I’ve still wasted a lot of time hemming and hawing about finding the perfect hole-punching device, one that’s maybe cheaper or longer-lasting or whatever. No one I’ve asked really has an opinion about the ideal tool for hole punching. So why do I keep asking when this simple and inexpensive tool is readily available?
Why do I hesitate when the solution is before me? Am I afraid to commit? Do I feel the need to justify the purchase by first having a definite list of hole-punching applications? Do I maybe feel slightly unjustified in my hole-punching endeavors? Do I feel somehow that this pursuit is frivolous? Do I feel that before I start punching holes in sheet metal, I should first complete more important things? Laundry? Vacuuming? Grocery shopping? Sock darning? Instructing my children in proper moral values?
You know, when I look at it, my hesitation about this simple purchase probably does reveal a deeper self-criticism that what I want-to punch holes in metal, and, on a larger scale, to design and craft jewelry-is somehow not legitimate, not important enough to give myself the proper tools.
If you are not achieving your writing goals, to what extent is this due to your own hesitancy to fully accept your desire to be a writer? Are you vacillating about make writing a bigger part of your life because perhaps you feel that it is irresponsible to “put off” more important things? Are you resisting the purchase of a new pen? A new computer? A new desk? A copy of The Chicago Manual of Style? A pair of bongos and a beret? (Clarification: Definitely DO NOT purchase bongos and a beret solely for the purpose of becoming more “writerly.”…but if you naturally look good in a beret, hey, what can you do?)
Let me dispel your feelings of guilt here and now and once and for all: Writing is important. Your self-expression is important. Doing what you want to do is important. You have free will; why not use it? Buy yourself that pen. Get a comfortable desk chair. Carve out a couple of hours a week to work on your story or poetry or novel.
Look at it this way: I already have my very own drum set. Compared to that, a little hole punch should be a no-brainer. What’s a new pen or a couple of hours per week in the grand scheme of things? Or even a new desk or new computer? Or even a whole hour per day, every day of the week? In the middle of my 30s, all of the sudden I up and decided to play the drums. Now you do it-go and be the writer you want to be.
OK, now that that’s settled, I’m getting what I need to do some serious hole-punching. Sheet metal everywhere: BEWARE!
Posted in Uncategorized on February 4th, 2009
It’s Friday. A beautiful, sunny day in Colorado, and here’s my first post on my radically new web site.
First of all, thanks for coming to this site, thanks for reading this, and thanks for becoming a part of the Heliograph community.
With this blog, I hope to provide useful information for writers–writing exercises, tips about publishing, ways to overcome common writing obstacles, and just general inspiration.
Many thanks to Mark Coleman for his great work on this site!
Johannah
