OK. So clearly someone "post-Christian" doesn't observe Lent strictly religiously, as a preparation for Easter. But the imprint of the Church year remains strong, part of the rhythm of my life. And for the first time in years, I feel a clear leading to give something up.
I was the only "creative" person in my family. In fact, my mother had rejected her mother's painting, designing, knitting and rug-hooking, and was, I fear, extremely uncomfortable with my creativity and musicality. Dad had no creative or hobby interests. By and large, my brothers were into the out-of-doors (hiking, skiing, bicycling and sailing), although Andrew would become quite a fine photographer. But overall, in my family and among friends, I was "the creative one." Many of you know the feeling, always being asked to make cards or write silly poems or draw diagrams or maps because, "You're the one who can do all these things."
Oddly (given my parents' overall lack of interest in the arts), I think I equated my creativity with "worth," and thought somehow if they (and by extension, the world) could see my beautiful creations, they would find me worthy to be on the planet. And yet, decades of organ recitals, embroidered or painted gifts, and music and art degrees went by with barely a, "That's nice dear." How much I was doing anything for its own sake, and how much in a frenzied attempt to prove my worth, I don't know.
And in this last decade, there has been something of the same quality to my (decidedly creative!) efforts to get back to England and the world of English church music. I don't have to prove to myself that this is the core of my being. But maybe if I got into such-and-such a choir, or sang at such-and-such a cathedral, or began to be recognized as a Howells scholar, I would finally be seen, respected, embraced. I would be "worthy." Yet I'm still in America, still living on nearly nothing, still feeling invisible all around. While I don't doubt the value of my skills and their results, I am questioning whether my 60 years of creativity have been done from the right inner place, how much my various efforts have helped anyone else, and whether this sort of creativity has been, in fact, the highest skill set I was meant to use in this lifetime.
These last six weeks or so, I've done a lot of writing and some desultory art and design. Creativity is still my instinctive default as I travel my path. But there is something so stale about my creative energy right now. Perfunctory, unenthusiastic.
So on Ash Wednesday, two days from now, I will put aside all creative materials, even pen and paper. I will release the need to write, journal, blog, paint, collage, sing, or even creatively problem solve. I do have reservations about putting my book on hold. Eight months of hard work has brought me within shouting distance of the end of it, but my gut tells me my Lenten creativity "fast" will teach me something important that I need to know before finishing the project.
Will I twiddle my thumbs? Will I watch too much TV? Will I take up bird watching? Where will my creative energy get channeled? I don't know. All I know is that if an impulse feels "creative" in the traditional sense of the word, I will politely thank it and ask it to wait "forty days and forty nights."
And sometime the week after Easter, I will let you know what has happened. In a strange way, creativity has been a heavy mantle. I feel lighter already.
Monday, February 24, 2020
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Protagonist
A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of attending a workshop on telling your life story, led by Diane M. Millis, PhD, a writer and spiritual director. She is the author of Re-Creating a Life: Learning How to Tell our most Life-Giving Story, and I am working my way through the book/exercises as a way of improving the memoir I am currently writing, and just simply to turn the corner on seeing my life in a new way.
The other day, I noticed that the next chapter was called, "Who is the Protagonist in your story?" Before I even had a chance to read the chapter, my brain responded, "My Father."
Uh-oh.
Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.
Let's put aside for a moment that a therapist would have a field day with this. Let's put aside for a moment the fact that my dad was such a passive black hole, and that even now it is hard to nail down anything active that he "did to me." Indeed, he did so little in so many respects that the fact that I see him as a protagonist is extremely surprising. All of this is for another day.
But the headline is that, on some very essential level, I have not seen myself as the main character in my own life story. This is horrifying given the fact that I have been single all these years and operating on my own in the world. And yet I can't help but wonder to what extent that this is the experience of many other women; even in 2020, we are in a culture that can treat us as support staff, no matter what our actual role is.
Something has snapped into place since journaling about this surprising response. Feisty little Lizzie has come to life. "I don't think so! I don't want anyone else, male or female, to be the main character in my story! This is my story!" She's two years old, and her feet are stomping on the ground!
Clearly, some work to do. I am thankful for the time to do it, and for the wonderful tool of this book.
The other day, I noticed that the next chapter was called, "Who is the Protagonist in your story?" Before I even had a chance to read the chapter, my brain responded, "My Father."
Uh-oh.
Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.
Let's put aside for a moment that a therapist would have a field day with this. Let's put aside for a moment the fact that my dad was such a passive black hole, and that even now it is hard to nail down anything active that he "did to me." Indeed, he did so little in so many respects that the fact that I see him as a protagonist is extremely surprising. All of this is for another day.
But the headline is that, on some very essential level, I have not seen myself as the main character in my own life story. This is horrifying given the fact that I have been single all these years and operating on my own in the world. And yet I can't help but wonder to what extent that this is the experience of many other women; even in 2020, we are in a culture that can treat us as support staff, no matter what our actual role is.
Something has snapped into place since journaling about this surprising response. Feisty little Lizzie has come to life. "I don't think so! I don't want anyone else, male or female, to be the main character in my story! This is my story!" She's two years old, and her feet are stomping on the ground!
Clearly, some work to do. I am thankful for the time to do it, and for the wonderful tool of this book.
Monday, February 10, 2020
For one moment
Last week has to have been one of the most trying/traumatizing ever, at least from the standpoint of looking outward. The spread of fear, hatred, disease...I had both got the "news" of it through the medium of TV, and sought relief there as well, unsuccessfully. Scanning the cable channels, I rarely found anything that was not a thriller, a crime show, or a movie about war or a future apocalypse. (Gosh, what is it that people don't get about the law of attraction?!) Even my old fallback, The Great British Baking Show, is competitive at its core, only more gently so.
My whole life, it seems, I have been emotionally at arm's length from a family I didn't understand, an ocean away from the music and place I love, a gender away from being able to sing that music, and looking through plate glass at institutions and conflicts that make no sense. I am sure I have been derided for not doing a better job of engaging, and considered ill, myself, because I don't function well in "reality." I guess I have said it before -- I have felt so apart, and frankly, so lonely.
This morning, I saw a reference (with photos) to the battlefields of World War One. I felt my usual, dizzy sense of otherness, not understanding on any level why wars are fought, or the desire to kill people in battle or otherwise. I feel chronically distanced from every manifestation of separation and conflict, whether political, social, economic, health, or religious. When I try to live a life referencing these world "realities," I feel untethered, as if I am tumbling through space. Talk about homeless.
Then inexplicably, for a short "aha" moment, the "otherness" of the world didn't matter. For one moment, all that mattered was my "is"-ness. My truth, my vision, my artistry and musicianship, my honest efforts to stand up every day in a sea of what feels like insanity. This feeling of groundedness keeps trying to slip away, but I'm holding on.
I believe that one or two hundred years from now, the only human life that will still exist on this planet will be that which is primarily "about" love/compassion/support/beauty/harmony/truth/passion/vitality/joy. Resistance to these things will just fall away. No grand battle. Enough people will simply grow tired of conflict and not engage in it, in any form. Hatred of other people and the earth will dissipate into the mist, as people stop even hearing "calls to arms" and "fighting words." Our energy ripples will be too high to even hear those sounds.
We artists and musicians have always "gotten it." Yellow isn't put on the canvas to fight blue. Altos are not in the choir to fight basses. Sometimes there is dissonance, but it's resolved, not killed off.
Oh to hold onto this for one more moment.
My whole life, it seems, I have been emotionally at arm's length from a family I didn't understand, an ocean away from the music and place I love, a gender away from being able to sing that music, and looking through plate glass at institutions and conflicts that make no sense. I am sure I have been derided for not doing a better job of engaging, and considered ill, myself, because I don't function well in "reality." I guess I have said it before -- I have felt so apart, and frankly, so lonely.
This morning, I saw a reference (with photos) to the battlefields of World War One. I felt my usual, dizzy sense of otherness, not understanding on any level why wars are fought, or the desire to kill people in battle or otherwise. I feel chronically distanced from every manifestation of separation and conflict, whether political, social, economic, health, or religious. When I try to live a life referencing these world "realities," I feel untethered, as if I am tumbling through space. Talk about homeless.
Then inexplicably, for a short "aha" moment, the "otherness" of the world didn't matter. For one moment, all that mattered was my "is"-ness. My truth, my vision, my artistry and musicianship, my honest efforts to stand up every day in a sea of what feels like insanity. This feeling of groundedness keeps trying to slip away, but I'm holding on.
I believe that one or two hundred years from now, the only human life that will still exist on this planet will be that which is primarily "about" love/compassion/support/beauty/harmony/truth/passion/vitality/joy. Resistance to these things will just fall away. No grand battle. Enough people will simply grow tired of conflict and not engage in it, in any form. Hatred of other people and the earth will dissipate into the mist, as people stop even hearing "calls to arms" and "fighting words." Our energy ripples will be too high to even hear those sounds.
We artists and musicians have always "gotten it." Yellow isn't put on the canvas to fight blue. Altos are not in the choir to fight basses. Sometimes there is dissonance, but it's resolved, not killed off.
Oh to hold onto this for one more moment.
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Heartbreaking
On Saturday, I did something I never thought I'd do. I stood up in front of approximately one hundred people and said words to the effect that "my life has been heartbreaking, from the moment of my birth onward." And that's the truth -- I won't elaborate, because if you have read more than a handful of my blogs, you have some idea what I mean. But this is the first time I literally stood up and verbally said those words (with no further explanation) into a sea of faces. Not surprisingly, I have experienced an emotional roller coaster since then, made even more traumatizing by the fact that the national spectacle in front of us reminds me of me trying to operate in my family and much of my life -- a strong, creative, intelligent, well-intentioned, ethical, reasonable "case" being met by a brick wall of "no."
The fact is (and this may be the reason I could never have become a lawyer), the minute you have to "argue a case" with the black-hole-that-isn't-love, you have already lost. The black hole doesn't listen. It simply sucks in everything that comes near it, and you lose yourself, and everything you hold dear.
In the midst of this week's confluence of remarkable events, it is clear that the answer is not to fight harder, adding to polarization and the conflagration of fear. The answer isn't found in focusing on any of the world's black-holes-that-aren't-love. I must increasingly "reference"/model/stand for only love/beauty/creativity/truth/integrity/joy. In a sense, this is exactly what has made my life so impossible so far, but going backward isn't an option either. I've embraced my broken heart, stood her up for all to see, and I think it's helping me love her more.
The fact is (and this may be the reason I could never have become a lawyer), the minute you have to "argue a case" with the black-hole-that-isn't-love, you have already lost. The black hole doesn't listen. It simply sucks in everything that comes near it, and you lose yourself, and everything you hold dear.
In the midst of this week's confluence of remarkable events, it is clear that the answer is not to fight harder, adding to polarization and the conflagration of fear. The answer isn't found in focusing on any of the world's black-holes-that-aren't-love. I must increasingly "reference"/model/stand for only love/beauty/creativity/truth/integrity/joy. In a sense, this is exactly what has made my life so impossible so far, but going backward isn't an option either. I've embraced my broken heart, stood her up for all to see, and I think it's helping me love her more.
Friday, January 17, 2020
Blog 500: Lake Superior Freezing Over
Hard to believe. My 500th post. I am at the beginning of a three month, what?, retreat/hermitage/mystic-being-a-mystic time that lasts until Easter. I mean, I'm still getting out most days on the city bus to do grocery shopping, use the library computer, see friends, etc. However, my focus is on finishing my book and listening to any and all inner leadings that may surface during this time. It's easier to do at this season of the year. Yesterday began at something like -13 degrees F, with wind chills down in the minus thirties. The sky was brilliant blue, and as anyone knows who has traveled to or lived in this environment, everything seems sharp, clear, almost shockingly so.
I sat looking out the window and stared at the big lake, which is starting to freeze around the edges. Something happened that has never happened to me before, which is that a poem started to write itself. So I grabbed pen and paper, and the result is here. Whether it is a good poem or not, I'll leave to others, and whether it's really about the lake or me, I also don't know. But I share it with my ever-indulgent readers, with thanks for still being there after four-and-a-half years.
Freezing Over
I am freezing over.
Some say I have been frozen all along,
Creaking, groaning,
Inarticulate.
But you weren't listening, were you.
Beware my placid surface
Beware the white sheen that goes as far as the
eye can see.
Nothing is happening, you say.
But it is happening. It is happening.
I will thaw in the spring.
And this year
You will hear my voice.
It will be all that is audible.
It will be all that is sensible.
Any more.
I sat looking out the window and stared at the big lake, which is starting to freeze around the edges. Something happened that has never happened to me before, which is that a poem started to write itself. So I grabbed pen and paper, and the result is here. Whether it is a good poem or not, I'll leave to others, and whether it's really about the lake or me, I also don't know. But I share it with my ever-indulgent readers, with thanks for still being there after four-and-a-half years.
Freezing Over
I am freezing over.
Some say I have been frozen all along,
Creaking, groaning,
Inarticulate.
But you weren't listening, were you.
Beware my placid surface
Beware the white sheen that goes as far as the
eye can see.
Nothing is happening, you say.
But it is happening. It is happening.
I will thaw in the spring.
And this year
You will hear my voice.
It will be all that is audible.
It will be all that is sensible.
Any more.
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
Epiphanies
I love the word and the concept of "epiphanies," whether in the religious construct, the literature construct, or just in life. And this year -- 2020 -- seems like a good one for them. I am sure we'll all get sick of references to clear vision and clarity this year; yet I love the prospect of a clear-seeing year. Eyesight is particularly precious when your glasses correct 20-800 vision to near 20-20. In the new year, I wish all of us the ability to really see and understand what is happening.
Sure enough, almost as if on cue, the news gave us something to lurch us into clarity, if we're ready for it. For me, putting aside the particulars of this current event, it's just a case of, when will we (the human race generally) get sick of conflict? All conflict? When will we wake up from this nightmare of duality? The curse of the "versus." Conflict never ends when you believe there is a frightful "other" with whom you must fight. I am so done with it all, the revenge, the retaliation, the reaction, the lines in the sand, everything done in "response" to something. Will this be the year that we finally grow out of this paradigm?
Maybe I was born with it. Maybe I developed it because of being a choral musician and artist; I don't know. All I know is that I can only seem to see and tolerate a unified field of harmony and beauty. I have no room in my 60-something life for conflict of any sort. In situations where I realize I am or have been angry (writing my book is bringing some of this to the surface), this is my internal issue. I am responsible for the pain I feel, and I need to heal myself and walk through the epiphanies I am having, not lash out at others.
Not everyone is there yet. But those of us who have "re"tired from (or are just plain tired of) the world of conflict have an excellent opportunity this year to model non-reactive action. We can use this rocky historical moment to release the beauty and harmony hidden in our cores, in our own ways. We can choose to model true creative power, not destructive reprisal.
Sure enough, almost as if on cue, the news gave us something to lurch us into clarity, if we're ready for it. For me, putting aside the particulars of this current event, it's just a case of, when will we (the human race generally) get sick of conflict? All conflict? When will we wake up from this nightmare of duality? The curse of the "versus." Conflict never ends when you believe there is a frightful "other" with whom you must fight. I am so done with it all, the revenge, the retaliation, the reaction, the lines in the sand, everything done in "response" to something. Will this be the year that we finally grow out of this paradigm?
Maybe I was born with it. Maybe I developed it because of being a choral musician and artist; I don't know. All I know is that I can only seem to see and tolerate a unified field of harmony and beauty. I have no room in my 60-something life for conflict of any sort. In situations where I realize I am or have been angry (writing my book is bringing some of this to the surface), this is my internal issue. I am responsible for the pain I feel, and I need to heal myself and walk through the epiphanies I am having, not lash out at others.
Not everyone is there yet. But those of us who have "re"tired from (or are just plain tired of) the world of conflict have an excellent opportunity this year to model non-reactive action. We can use this rocky historical moment to release the beauty and harmony hidden in our cores, in our own ways. We can choose to model true creative power, not destructive reprisal.
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