A glimpse inside my eclectic studio practice
The traveler driving down a lonely country road at night, is encouraged by the distant twinkling lights of her destination.
But it’s the headlights of her car that keep her from driving off the road.
In life we are drawn toward the bright light of desire and distant dreams.
But only the light we carry with us, will keep our wheels on the road and our footsteps on the path.
We have to keep that light burning.
This is a re-post from last year but I needed to remind myself of this today.
If we had to say what writing is, we would have to define it essentially as an act of courage. —Cynthia Ozick
I do believe that writing is an act of courage.
Courage to keep going when life is in chaos–
courage to keep going when your are tired and drained and empty,
when you think you have been left behind,
when you think someone else is better than you.
when you think you have nothing to say.
when no one pays any attention
to what you have written.
It takes courage to write.
I believe this.
Over and over and over in my life,
my fear has stopped me dead in my tracks.
And courage was nowhere to be found.
I didn’t understand that fear was necessary for courage to exist.
I didn’t realize courage and fear were inseparable companions.
So now I live my life,
knowing fear is always present
and always talking to me–
And somehow I have to keep going anyway and trust that I can.
Because courage is standing right there with fear-
waiting to be called on–waiting to take the lead-
waiting to carry me across whatever dangerous territory–
whatever hidden enemies–
I think I am facing.
I need to remember this.
Now especially.
I have an opportunity to include an excerpt of my new play
in a festival of new work but fear is plaguing me.
It’s screaming at me.
It’s sneaking up on me.
Covert attacks.
Constantly.
Every little obstacle that I have to face or every tiny suggestion
that something needs work or should be cut–
is scaring me to the point that I am angry.
I wake up in the morning
with dread that I am not good enough–
That the play is not ready.
I find myself reacting angrily to things.
Or I am annoyed at the person who offered me
the opportunity at the wrong time.
I have to constantly remind myself,
That I am not actually in danger.
It’s just my fear trying to protect me.
It’s just my fear, wanting me to quit —
so that I don’t have to take a risk–
or feel the pain of possible failure.
And every demand of my life–
and there are many these days-
seems to suggest I don’t have the time
or the stamina or the ability.
But it is just my fear trying to stop me
from failing.
But I am not going to fail.
I can do this.
I can do it.
There is no conquering fear.
There is no need to conquer it.
Courage needs me to know this.
Ready or not here I come.
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” Jack Kerouac
I have built a little cage
on the edge of a cliff,
where I pretend–
to live contentedly,
rather than learn to swim across
the turbulent waters below.
Cushioned by the delusion of safety,
I hang there trapped–
above murky waters-
as if sitting alone in a cage–
is preferable to the risk of drowning.
I watch with envy, all the
happy swimmers passing by.
They seem to calm the water
with their powerful strokes.
But the thought of being
swallowed by the current,
keeps me here,
behind the iron bars of
disappointment.
I have dreamed this flooded landscape.
I have dreamed this turbulent water.
I have dreamed the murky depths.
And I have dreamed this cage.
Now wide awake–
I am dreaming of a little red boat.
I find myself at times
living my life
as if I was trapped
in a haunted room–
spending all my days and nights
all alone with
my hopeless longings
hanging like torn and tattered
curtains,
heavy with years.
Ghostly companions
whispering in the dark
And even when I
try to escape
I can’t get far–
without tripping on
all my unanswered questions
and unfulfilled dreams
piled in the corners,
like unpaid bills.
As if I owe myself
more agony
As if I fear getting behind
in my suffering.
As if only the frightening truth
will set me free.
I would love to renovate
so the the walls of that
room could come crashing down–
and all the old secrets would
crumble and blow away.
Or maybe it would be enough
just for the door to be
locked forever–
and left as a resting place
for other ghosts– not mine
who would keep company
with all that I had
finally left behind in that
old haunted room.
___________________________________
Knowing and accepting
that we will be criticized-
that we will be judged,
rejected or even worse
ignored–
and choosing to
continue anyway-
is an essential skill
that we need to acquire-
that we can not do without-
in life and in art.
So is knowing and accepting
that sometimes the road is
long and hard-
and straight uphill-
all the way–
and that our chosen path
will take us through
mud and sludge and swamp-
and steep mountains
and dark forests.
And that for much
of the journey
we are absolutely
alone.
To be lost and afraid
and to ache
and nearly break–
is part of the journey.
There is no avoiding it.
When we are engaged
in the process of writing or painting–
where the product matters-
where it’s not just therapeutic–
or an exercise in self inquiry-
but where expectations of merit-
and quality play an important part–
we will at some point-
feel all of the awful.
fearful, jealous, disappointed,
rejected, despairing, angry emotions.
And we will be full of doubt.
We will from time to time
believe that we can not
keep going.
But there is the trick
to surviving all this misery.
It’s remembering that if
you are feeling these
things–you are on your path.
If you feeling all tis pain
you are doing it right.
You are staying on track.
If you opened your lap top today
and hate what your wrote yesterday–
and the day before–
You are in the process
of doing the work.
You are getting there-
you are slogging up the hill-
you are getting it done.
You are getting somewhere.
So when you are stuck with nothing to say-
remember that you are supposed to get stuck-
sometimes.
You are not going anywhere folks if–
from time to time
you don’t get stuck-
waylaid, distracted, completely lost.
You haven’t left the comfort zone if
you never want to rage and moan.
It is part of the creative process.
That is all it is.
You wanna quit but don’t.
You gotta go through this part.
On the other side of this
is your reward.
Coming soon. Part two,
The little grey squirrel–
sitting on the scaffolding outside my window–
doesn’t seem to be bothered by the pouring rain.
I need to adopt a squirrel attitude,
I guess nature asks it’s creatures to accept things.
Squirrel and his family have been very busy in my attic
since the end of summer.
The roof has an opening that can’t be closed
until the house repairs are done.
I am trying to have a Beatrix Potter attitude
about my house guests. It’s difficult.
They can be very noisy when they start scratching in
the wee hours.
And I am trying to be accepting
of the difficulties I face.
I am still standing.
I just have to hold on and do my best.
The shocks and losses of recent years
have been like a storm that subsides but does not
end.
It may keep going like this.
It’s entirely possible.
It’s that part of the movie.
The hero is tied to the dock and the waves are coming in.
I expect a lot more grief to come.
More hardships to carry and more
losses to face–
more heartache.
I am not so much afraid of it–
as preparing for it.
I am trying to face the coming year
With as much courage, calm and continued belief
that there is always good amongst the bad
and gifts amongst the challenges–
and joy within the pain.
And I am ready for it.
I am expecting it.
I am expecting myself to keep going
to keep believing and to keep trying
to live in happiness and openness and faith.
Despite the hard stuff.
Trying anyway.
My word for the coming year–
Yes I choose a word to call up the magic that it brings–
Resiliance.
That is what I need.
It’s a good word.
Bright shiny tough.
Resiliance.
I do not like Christmas or birthdays or celebrations
anything that has to happen on a certin day–
I prefer to celebrate for no reason.
I prefer to celebrate–just because.
But the true message of the season
The coming of hope and light into the world
Makes me shine a little.
Merry Christmas
Today is December 6th and every year on this day I like to take a moment to reflect and remember what happened on this day 23 years ago.
On December 6 we commemorate the anniversary of the Montreal massacre, at L’École Polytechnique de Montréal.
On that terrible day December 6 1989 these 14 innocent young women were gunned down in a senseless act of violence against women.
Please take the time to say their names aloud or read them slowly in your mind.
The women’s names were:
Anne-Marie Edward, Anne-Marie Lemay, Annie St Arneault,
Annie Turcotte, Barbara Daigneault, Barbara Maria Klucznik, Genevieve Bergeron
Helene Colgan, Maryse LeClaire, Maryse Leganiere, Maud Haviernier, Michele Richard,
Nathalie Croteau, Sonia Pelletier.
I don’t want the world to forget their names. Today I am not mentioning the name of their killer. It’s their names I want to think about.
As you go about your daily life today, please take the time to remember them and allow their tragic deaths to remind us that Violence against women and girls continues to be a massive global problem.
When we think of the 14 young women who died on December 6 we can reflect on the continuing violence around the world against women or really any gender based violence– and think hard about what we are going to do about it.
You could go here and donate if you don’t know what to do. These folks have some good things figured out.
DEATH DANCE FOR LOST GIRLS
I reblogged this post from a few years ago
I think I have come a long way from this but some of them still apply.
Reasons I get stuck.
1. It is hard to keep going when the destination seems so
distant and unknown.
2. It is hard to keep believing in yourself–
when there is no real evidence that what you believe
is more than your ego gone wild.
3. It is hard to go on without recognition
or validation or reward–
because you could be delusional.
Completely mad.
It’s a distinct possibility.
4.It is hard to find a reason to keep going because of
all of the above.
5. And then there is the question of your own sanity.
So Here’s another list.
Reasons to question my own sanity.
1. I am writing the third draft a play–that may never be produced.
2. I probably could put time and effort into more lucrative pursuits yet
I persist.
3.The life of an artist is often painful, disappointing
frustrating and depressing.
I hate to say it, but this leads to another list .
Painful things about being an artist.
1.The weeping, nail-biting–
and hopeless staring at an empty
screen.
2.Thefeeling that I am absolutely on the right
track suddenly changing to the realization that I’m not.
3.Awareness that my ability
to say something-
that hasn’t been said-
by countless others–
seems–
a) lacking?
b)missing in action?
c)otherwise engaged.
3.The constant nagging voice inside me
saying unkind things about the value or validity
of my own work
4. Experiencing shame, jealousy and resentment for the success of others
5, Trying to not have jealousy and resentment for the success of others.
6. Feeling threatened by the success of others. Oh God! Help me!!!!
7. Though some artists, writers and actors are wildly successful
famous and rich– the majority of us deal with–
Oh dear– I guess it’s another list–
The 99 percent
1. lack of recognition,
2. crushing poverty
3. the thought of dying in obscurity
4. The realization that absolute failure is entirely possible
5. The ever looming reality of poverty–
and dying in obscurity increasing with age. Yikes!
BUT–
I realize that despite the above lists–
None of these are good enough reasons to give up my dream.
Not writing–because of fear of failure
ensures my success at one thing– failing.
Failure is possible enough without my helping it along.
And–If I do not write–
My fearful, negative, self will have defined me and
controlled me and won this battle.
AND SO
I keep
1. writing.
2. painting,
3. improving,
4. growing,
5. discovering–
and even though I am often–
1.stumbling
2. falling,
3.crashing,
4. burning.
I keep going.
Because
1.There is no turning back for me.
2.The road only goes one way.
3.There is no place that I can go back to.
4.The road behind me is closed.
Well folks–
if this has not been annoying enough–
Here is another list–this one is for you .
1.What are you working on?
2. If you are not really working on something–
What are you avoiding?
3.What are you risking by not risking?
What are you denying yourself
by not devoting yourself to the discipline?
4. What terrors are you subjecting yourself to
by not confronting the fear?
And last but not least–
5. Why are you reading my silly lists.
1.Go get to work.
2.Call the Muse.
3.Wait for her.
4.Don’t make other plans
She is most likely to show up when you are actually at your desk or your easel
on tapping away on a keyboard in bed or in a coffee shop or wherever you write.
“Life is complex.
Each one of us must make his own path through life. There are no self-help manuals, no formulas, no easy answers. The right road for one is the wrong road for another…The journey of life is not paved in blacktop; it is not brightly lit”, and it has no road signs. It is a rocky path through the wilderness. ”
― M. Scott Peck from The Road Less Travelled
If you have stumbled on this blog–
or if you are someone who has decided to
subscribe to it–
I want you to tell you how happy I am that you have decided
to visit.
The reason I write here is to encourage myself–
inspire myself–support myself– and otherwise
keep myself dedicated to my art practice
and hopefully–maybe- do the same for you.
I have nothing in particular to offer you
nothing to teach you–
nothing to sell you
nothing to give away–
other than–
my own commitment to keep going–
along my unpaved and often rained out–
artistic road.
Here I am in the middle of blogland
with my dream hanging out
for all to see-
encouraging myself to be fearless.
And hoping you will be fearless too.
And even if my words fall into
the empty void–
I will keep writing and painting and growing my artistry.
I have been building a dream for the past couple of years.
It’s not one that will offer me instant rewards or recognition.
There are other things–
that I could do–
that would give me more of that.
I am taking the hard road.
The rocky and unpaved path.
The road less travelled.
I may be too weak, too introverted,
too obsessive too perfectionistic,
too fearful, too shy, too melancholy–
I may even be delusional–
I am not young and fresh and new at any of this.
I have gone unrecognized and undiscovered
for so long that many might think I should give up.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I wont.
I am compelled to continue–
despite waves of despair and hopelessness–
Despite the choking fingers of self doubt-
Despite the pain of being ignored–
I do not quit because what I do–
is what I love.
The journey of imagination is what
feeds me and delights me and challenges me.
And I keep going with the hope that
dedication and discipline and fierce devotion–
will allow me to one day create
a work of art that inspires and astonishes
and heals and challenges and transforms
and all those other things
that art can do.
I am writing a play right now–
with the determination
to dig in deep
to live in the difficulty–
to roam and fall into the hollows–
to cope with the endless mud of the work
to write and write and stay writing
without recognition and reward.
To look hopelessness and fear
square in the eye–
And to persevere without compliments or
rave reviews or agents jumping to represent me.
To ignore the defeatist messages I send myself.
And to press on. Regardless.
This is my road.
Hope you are somewhere on yours.
What are you working on?
What is it that you want to create?
What is it that you are avoiding?
Lets talk about it.
This painting is called Waiting. It’s autobiographical.
I posted it here because it’s about my creative imagination
and how sometimes I have to just sit still and wait-
for the images to come out of the dark.
I am writing a new play.
The working title is Ladder of Angels.
It is a work of imagination. Fiction.
I am finding the story as I go along.
It is a bit like catching butterflies at night.
My writing community Wet Ink Collective—
right now is deep in a ten week writing intensive.
We have all set ourselves the challenge of
completing a draft of a play in ten weeks.
Crazy yes! Scary? Yes. Exciting. Yes.Yes Yes!!!!
!2 writers meet once a week and spend three hours
reading and discussing each others new pages–
with the idea of everyone emerging at the end with a completed
script in their hot little hands.
It can be a rough draft, a second draft whatever?
It doesn’t matter. The goal is getting it done–
and not chickening out along the way.
We are all swimming across a wide lake of our own creative dreams
and some of us are already gasping for air–
But we are there for each other–
keeping each other afloat.
Its all about being fearless and trusting
that the creative imagination will open up
and the words and images will flow out– if we allow them.
And– to tame the inner critic enough to keep going.
I am not one who believes that the inner critic is my enemy.
When my critic sticks with sensible though ruthless commentary about
the authenticity of my characters, or the flow of a scene– she can be very
helpful. It’s only when she makes it personal and starts telling me I am not worthy
and can not rise to the task or that I will never achieve my dreams–
that is when she must be sent to her room.
So now I challenge/encourage/invite you– my readers– to set the goal–
to complete a draft of something–anything–in a designated period of time
and find some one, or a group, to hold you to the task.
Is is a short story that you would like to set down for a writing contest?
Is it the family story you want to write? Is it the book
that you have been thinking about for years and years?
Set a goal. Make a deadline– and grab some creative supporters
who will keep you honest and accountable. Do it.
Defeat resistance. Face your fear. Keep that promise you
made to yourself. Be fearless.
“It’s never too late to have a happy childhood”
Tom Robbins
Some people say that Labour Day marks the end of summer,
but not for me. I hold on to the beauty of this season
until the autumn equinox.
Maybe even longer.
I have resumed my morning ritual of painting in bed.
I pull all my supplies and my journal into the bed
and just begin.
It helps me remember that the raw dread I sometimes
wake up with is just a feeling.
Caring for my mother is difficult.
As silly as it sounds I am still afraid of
her. Afraid of displeasing her
Afraid of awakening her rage.
My fear is old and carved into my brain
like a mountain road is carved into the granite.
How many explosions does it take to cut through
a mountain– or a kid?
And she’s just a little old lady
frail with Dementia–and sweet
most of the time.
But still she can fill me with terror.
I have learned–well I am learning–
to have compassion for her and for myself.
I have hired a care giver again.
Four hours a week.
We will see how it goes this time.
She has already started to complain.
I think the thing is to not give in.
I think the thing is to hold my ground.
I have never been able to do that with her.
Now I have to grow up and be an adult,
and I think the best way, is to connect
with the child in me–
and have my happy childhood now.
So painting in my art journal is part of that.
I write down my sadness and then I paint over it
and it is surprising how my spirits
lift and my view of things shifts.
It is amazing how spending a little
time diverting your imagination from
endless ruminating on impending disaster
can transform my whole inner world.
If you paint it’s hard to think resentful thoughts.
If you splash colour around it’s hard to have all that
mess in your mind.
