Watermark

The Artist's Way ~ Week 12: Recovering a Sense of Faith

This journey ends, another begins; time to review where I've been. When I joined this group, it was with the intention of also working with Danny Gregory's The Creative License, which I've done only slightly. But you know, I'm feeling OK about that, in the context of all that I have managed to do over the past three months; and I know I will get back to it.

I've wrestled with my meanest demon -- the why do they like me/ why do they like my work/ I don't deserve it demon. I know that this nasty little thing will keep dancing around the edges, but I know it better now; I see it. I've also acquired some peace around the issues of faith and religion. Not the resolution Cameron might prefer, but one that works for me.

As my life filled up, I became less focused on this project, and a quick review of the AW Bloggers list shows me I am not alone in this. I wonder if this is just human nature -- we begin something with high expectations, and then fade; or the season, which in this northern hemisphere is calling us outside; or part of the process itself, which is designed to bring new things into our lives, and new attention to what is already there.

In looking through old notebooks -- just one of the activities this process inspired  -- I came across this dream, from October 01991 -- about four years after I began writing:

I am gagging, stomach heaving, trying to throw up. A child tells me: This is how whales are born! I must have swallowed a whale sperm/ embryo, which grows inside me until it's ready for the next phase -- to be thrown up into the sea. Most people who carry the whale (the child tells me) don't survive the birth; they either die immediately or bleed to death slowly afterwards.

My note to this entry says: This dream was in the middle of the night. I woke to escape it. I thought: The whale is the writing. I thought: I will survive it.

On January 14, 02006, just a week into this project, I had the dragon dream, which I think is the same dream, only more hopeful. Spirals.

I did have some problems with the book, mostly around issues of class, which I wrote about when I became too annoyed to take what I liked and leave the rest -- but I'm glad I took this on, and want to thank Kat once again for initiating and organizing it. I would have been unlikely to do it on my own. Some of the group are continuing at Contagious Creativity; I may join them now and then.

There have been some great pleasures for me in these past months: my dear friend Niki's participation in this project; time with Linda; visits from old friends; discovering new ones. I took a whole month of photos. I know that I lost some readers, and gained others.

Let's see what a poem-a-day will do.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 11: Recovering a Sense of Autonomy

Well. Hmmm. I've done almost none of the tasks (except, of course, the morning pages) but I did get myself some flowers, and I'm doing gentle yoga almost daily with my visiting friend, who happens to be a yoga instructor. And I've managed a photo every day for the 30DayPhoto Challenge.

OK, I confess -- I've barely thought about AW this week, even though I highlighted a lot when I read this chapter. For instance:

As an artist, I may need a different mix of stability and flow from other people.

And:

When we are not creating, artists are not always very normal or very nice -- to ourselves or to others.

Also:

To be an artist is to recognize the particular. To appreciate the peculiar.

It is this willingness to once more be a beginner that distinguishes a creative career.

. . . the Artist's Way is a spiral path.

Cameron talks about the Zen of sports, and quotes Eve Babitz:

"Swimming," she says, "is a wonderful sport for a writer." . . . That rhythmic, repetitive action transfers the locus of the brain's energies from the logic to the artist hemisphere. It is there that inspiration bubbles up untrammeled by the constraints of logic.

Swimming was my sport, before I got ill -- except for me is wasn't a sport. It was a moving meditation -- the breathing, the stretch. And this makes me grieve for it, and may push me back to the water, even if I can do only five laps at a time. One of my first attempts at a sonnet was about swimming:

Swimming Sonnet/
a nautical metrical exercise

The pool is long and blue and cool. I dive
into the soothing depth, the wet. I cut
the water, arms a knife, a curving slice,
a turn, another lap, a breath, a pull
and earth below is not allowed to hold
my body down and I am flying free
of ground, my cells expand, my spirit grows
and melts into the chlorine blue, I feel
the stretch of spine and soul, I reach to touch
some goal, it’s just beyond my fingertips
at last, another lap, if I could just
not need to breathe...
      now slow, I gasp and kick
           against the heavy claim of land-locked life,
           so hard, so harsh, so shallow, short, and dry.

Finally, this chapter encourages us to build an artist's altar, which I needn't do, as I have them everywhere:

She reminds us that:

. . . the artist child speaks the language of the soul: music, dance, scents, shells... Your artists altar . . . should be fun to look at, even silly.

I'd say I've managed that.

One more week.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 10: Recovering a Sense of Self-Protection

In this chapter, Cameron talks about blocks -- the whats, whys and hows. She talks about the usuals -- food, work, and sex -- and the less recognized:

For others, an obsession with painful love places creative choice outside their hands. Reaching for the painful thought, they become instant victims rather than feel their own considerable power.

I've been in that place. Though I must observe -- it provides lots of material. This is a justified complaint of those who are not writers against those of us who are: everything is material.

. . . note carefully that food, work, and sex are all good in themselves. It is the abuse of them that makes them creativity issues.

Interestingly, to me, she doesn't mention shopping in this chapter. Or cigarettes, though I suppose they fall into the drug category. When I was working and had disposable income, nothing would soothe me better than a cruise through the antique shops, followed by a nice smoke and a lazy -- one might almost say creative -- process of deciding where to place the new treasure(s). Oh, for the good old days...

As we become aware of our blocking devices -- food, busyness, alcohol, sex, other drugs -- we can feel our U-turns as we make them. The blocks will no longer work effectively. Over time, we will try -- perhaps slowly at first and erratically -- to ride out the anxiety and see where we emerge. Anxiety is fuel. We can use it to write with, paint with, work with. [emphasis mine]

Oh, yes. Sit with it. So easily said; done with such difficulty.

Spirals

I see the spiral metaphor everywhere; the idea that we revisit the same issues again and again in our lives, but at different -- presumably deeper -- levels. A Flickr search found many spiral images -- this one at the left was my favorite -- I think because of that lovely blue marble, and the garden behind. And because the photographer allows use under a Creative Commons License.

Recently, on one of the Blogging the Artist's Way blogs (I'm sorry, but I can't remember who this was -- if you see this, let me know so I can link to you) the writer was discouraged to see, when she read a year-old journal, that she was dealing with exactly the same issues a year later.

I laughed, because I've had not only that experience, but the experience of having some wonderful, revelatory insight -- one of those Wow! moments -- only to find, soon after, the exact same insight written in a journal from years earlier. Written down with excitement, and apparently immediately forgotten.

My path is less a spiral than a tangle:

My 30 Day Photo Challenge Flickr Set

A very nice slinky gave its life for this lesson. Let us pause to mourn and honor said slinky. OK, that's enough.

On this path, there is no nice, smooth curving around and around, to the deeper, magic center. It's more like going in circles and retracing my own route; sometimes stepping directly from one level to another; sometimes stepping way back to a place I passed long ago. Sometimes it seems I step into another dimension altogether; a multi-dimensional tangle.

That's my life.

Yours?

The Artist's Way ~ Week 9: Recovering a Sense of Compassion

Last week one of the suggested tasks was to:

Choose an artist totem. It might be a doll, a stuffed animal, a carved figurine, or a wind-up toy. The point is to choose something you immediately feel a protective fondness toward. Give your totem a place of honor and then honor it by not beating up on your artist child.

Let me get clinical here for a moment. I have long understood that adults who were sexually abused as children feel an immense sense of shame; are intolerant of vulnerability, which means just that: vulnerable to abuse; and so have difficulty accepting the child-in-themselves who was so abused. I know this. I've worked with many clients on these issues, and worked on my own. But this intertwining of creativity and childhood is a new tangle for me - or a new level of tangle, which I plan to talk about in another post.

For the moment, let me just say that these issues interfere with my enjoyment of some of these tasks. I chose, reasonably, the above doll for my artist totem. This was made for me by a lost friend (where are you, Tracey Perry?) as a representative of my child self. The doll has been on a shelf for many years; I take her out for this, and put her on the chair my mother gave me, with the sock monkey from my childhood. Or one I bought to replace that one; I no longer remember which.

So now all I have to do is be kind. To myself.

Not a small order.

Beginners & Experts

Via Lifehacker, I've found a great new blog (as if I could keep up with those I've already found): Creating Passionate Users. It was a post there -- How to be an expert -- that gave me just that little push I needed to jump into the 30 Day Photo Challenge:

... the research says that if we were willing to put in more hours, and to use those hours to practice the things that aren't so fun, we could become good. Great. Potentially brilliant. We need, as Restak refers to it, "a rage to master." ...

... there is some thought that to be, literally, THE best in the world at chess, or the violin, or math, or programming, or golf, etc. you might indeed need that genetic special something. But... that's to be THE best. The research does suggest that whatever that special sauce is, it accounts for only that last little 1% that pushes someone into the world champion status. The rest of us--even without the special sauce--could still become world (or at least national) class experts, if we do the time, and do it the right way ...

Not, mind you, that I plan on becoming an expert, professional photographer; I don't. That kind of energy I save for poems. But I suspect that working creatively in one medium enhances work in another, and I would be pleased to see both my photographs and my poems improve.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 8: Recovering a Sense of Strength

First, a few links:

I found this first one (a Yahoo group) because I got a hit from there; someone in the group linked to my very first post on The Artist's Way: artistswayplay · The Artist's Way Online Playgroup.

Then I found a Flickr group! How could I have missed this? Flickr: The Artist's Way & an associated Yahoo Group: FlickrArtistsWay · Flickr-Artist's Way

This one has book excerpts: SpiritSite.com - Julia Cameron index

An official site, which I am probably the last to discover: The Artists Way - the Official Julia Cameron Website

I haven't explored any of these yet, but wanted to share them before I forget all about them. Maybe this will help me remember to check them out. Which reminds me -- those of you who are interested only, or primarily, in my posts in this category can go directly to my artist's way category and thereby skip everything else.

So. Week eight. I had a lot of resistance to this one. Very conscious, determined resistance. I even skipped a day of morning pages.

Cameron writes that

Artists and intellectuals are not the same animal.

At first I resisted (again) this idea, thinking of the creativity required for science, for mathematics and physics -- but she is, I think, on to something here. The difference between poems and poetics.  

. . . most academics know how to take something apart, but not how to assemble it.  

Niki has written eloquently about this, as a teacher, an academic.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 7: Recovering a Sense of Connection

Last week's topics included listening, perfectionism, risk, and jealousy. Risk is an interesting one for me. I realized quite young that I was risk aversive; I like comfort, and safety. I recognized that many people settle into a job or a place early on, get comfortable, and never move -- physically, intellectually, emotionally, or spiritually -- and that I could easily become one of those people.

So I have, many times, grit my teeth and jumped -- into some job or place or work -- or relationship -- that was new and frightening for me. I have few regrets. Especially now, that health limits my options so severely.

Jump when you can, I say.

Perfectionism and jealousy have been issues for me at times, and I suppose there are remnants (especially of the first) (no, wait -- I envy people who are old and healthy and strong) -- but I've had a long time to live with my shortcomings; a long time to remedy, modify, or accept them.

And then there is listening. Here is another quote from Ted Kooser's The Poetry Home Repair Manual:

Jane Hirshfield wrote: "A work of art defines itself into being, when we awaken into it and by it, when we are moved, altered, stirred. It feels as if we have done nothing, only given it a little time, a little space; some hairline-narrow crack opens in the self, and there it is." She goes on to quote Kafka: "You do not even have to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, remain still and solitary. The world will freely off itself to you unasked. It has no choice. It will roll in ecstasy at your feet."

Go talk with Jane here.

I decided, on impulse, to go out on an artist date -- and the car wouldn't start. Mysteriously. So I called Kris and asked if, sometime when she was out and about, she could drop by her battery charger. She came the next day, with the charger, and the harp she has built (from a kit) for Abigail. This harp has a big, round voice. Kris was going to play just a little, but I wheedled.

When I asked, Kris explained that the reason recorded music does not turn my bones to butter, like live music does, is that recorded music lacks overtones, especially music recorded to compact discs. This, apparently, is the essence of the debate about vinyl vs. cd's.

So. Abundance.

Poetry

what is poetry for?
this              silence

A reminder: Jane Hirshfield is engaged in a conversation about poems, poetry, and other matters at The Well. This conversation is open to the public, and you are invited.

I've been reading Ted Kooser's The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets. Yes, I've been doing this for nearly twenty years, and I'm still a beginner.

I do recommend it for beginning poets; he offers lots of technical reminders they will find useful. He also offers some observations and opinions that I think apply to almost any creative endeavor -- and since I like what he says, I'm going to share some of it with you:

Journals & Notebooks

Blue Dog asks: What do you write in? And many, many reply, with photos and thoughts on journaling and writing that are worth sharing outside the Blogging the Artist's Way list, I think. So I have many links below the cut, and will add more as I find them. This gives me an excuse for another cute dog photo, the doglets tempting me from my writing in the morning:

Here is this poet's notebook, from a post last year on just that: Poets' Notebooks.  Sitting on the cover is the stick I was trying to draw:

   

You can see the poem that came out of these jottings here. My notebooks are Circa notebooks, from Levenger. I love this system -- I have a punch so I can add computer-printed pages (or anything else) to the current notebook; and file folders specifically designed for Circa pages for all my old notebooks.  Levenger's paper is great -- wonderful to the pen, and heavy enough that even wide fountain pens don't show through on the other side. It comes in graph and lined paper, as well as the plain you see here. When funds are tight, regular paper works just fine.

I prefer them because they fold completely open to provide their own hard backing, like a spiral notebook, but can look very spiffy and professional with the leather covers or folios (which are optional, and spendy.) The covers have pen loops and pockets. There are tons of accessories to tailor it to your needs and design preferences.

These notebooks come in different sizes; I have a smaller one I can carry with me when [if] I go out, and the pages can then be moved to the larger, main notebook. Pages go in and out of this system with ease. I do suspect these are better suited to writers than to artists.

Though the materials are nice, my notebooks are not 'beautiful' -- they are not artist's notebooks. They are 'compost' -- seeds and nurturance for future work. The handwriting is variable, from neat to illegible. Thoughts range, without clear boundaries, from dreams to description to fiction to long internal monologues that are some mixture of it all. The one consistent thing that I do is  try to write my dreams in green ink, so that they are easily found.

The pen you see with the dogs is a Sensa fountain pen -- these are lovely for sore hands, especially the gel pens. Beautiful balance, not heavy -- they float across the page. Of course, I discovered all these treasures when I was working, and had an income -- but I'm well-supplied. Also, I do believe that the things one uses every day should bring pleasure. Abundance, remember?

I want to mention that one thing about doing the Artist's way for which I am grateful, is that it has brought me back to my notebook. Since I started blogging, two years ago, my time with paper and pen has diminished, and I am glad to have it back again. There is a kind of physicality that is very different with the pen than with the keyboard.

One more thing, before I move on to the words and photos of others. In case some of you are nearly house-bound, as I have been; or even just like to carry your writing and reading supplies from room to room -- this idea may be of use -- my basket:

   

Click the photos to go to Flickr and see larger ones. These photos have notes, too.

Now, on to links, links, links (and one more cute dog photo):

The Artist's Way ~ Awful Affirmations

Are you fond of this affirmation?

     TREATING MYSELF LIKE
          A PRECIOUS OBJECT
       WILL MAKE ME STRONG

Have you, as directed, drawn it out and hung it on your wall? If so, you may want to quit reading this now. Because I detest it, and I am about to tell you why.

Let me acknowledge that the depth of my dislike is an indication that some unresolved feeling is attached to this; fears of vulnerability and weakness. But even without that, the connotations of this language -- precious, object -- are cringe-worthy.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 6: Recovering a Sense of Abundance

I confess, this has been an abundant week -- an adventurous week, given my usual quiet solitude. Even the solitude is abundant. Right now, for example (it's Sunday evening) I am writing this during breaks from Poirot, drinking wine and eating good dark chocolate. While I can quite reasonably claim that the specifics are unusual -- I rarely drink wine -- luxury is not unusual for me. I am not one of those anorexic, self-depriving, scarcity types for whom this chapter was written:

. . . a little authentic luxury can go a long way. The key word here is authentic. Because art is born in expansion, in a belief in sufficient supply, it is critical that we pamper ourselves for the sense of abundance it brings to us.

On the contrary, my lesson has been self-discipline -- and I do discipline myself, by necessity, at present. I know I can live on very little, having done so (and barely doing so now) and I know I can live on plenty -- by spending it. I also know that, in terms of contentment, there isn't a lot of difference -- assuming there's enough for shelter, heat, food, and pets. Which is quite a lot, actually. A very lot, by many measures.

All too often, we become blocked and blame it on our lack of money. This is never an authentic block. The actual block is our feeling of constriction, our sense of powerlessness.

The difference between enough to live on and a great deal is insignificant; the difference between not-enough and enough is vast. It is true, though, that the discontent in my life has generally stemmed from matters other than money.

The Artist's Way ~ Linda Hogan & Other Poets

Linda, as always, was great. She speaks from a deep place. The title of her talk was A Spiritual History of the Living World. I took almost no notes, but Niki did, and perhaps she will post from them at some point; if she does, I will link to it. Also, public access television recorded it, so I will post when it airs.

Linda spoke of language, and how it influences the way we see, and live in, the world. She reminds us that the whole land has stories, and they are not all told in English.

She read some poems, some I know, and some new ones -- a new book of poetry, and a new novel, will be out soon.

She said: We are all a part of this endlessly creative universe.

She spoke of spiritual ecology. She says that poetry is helping us get there -- to a new way of being in and with the world.

This reminded me that the work I do -- the work I try to do -- is important.

And yes, I have noticed the synchronicity with what we are doing in this Artist's Way group.

The questions after her hour plus presentation went on for another hour -- lots of earnest, mostly young people. Just an aside: many of those young people stepped right out of the late 60's/ early 70's -- witness the photo below. We saw tie-dye t-shirts and macrame necklaces. If not for the high-tech room and the plastic water bottles, we could have been back in our own college years.

Later, at dinner, as I tried to evade questions about what I do, Linda said: She's a poet. She's a really good poet.

Valentine

My friend Niki made this for me last year (the year before?) and it's been on my pinboard ever since. I wish the scan were better; this is so beautiful, color, texture -- that just doesn't show here. Those dots on the upper right sparkle. Click to see it larger.

This is a very special day for me -- this evening I'm going to go hear Linda Hogan read. Any of you who are in, or can get to Missoula for this -- don't miss it! I will never understand why every reader does not know her name.

May all of your days be as special as this.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 5: Recovering a Sense of Possibility

Is anyone else feeling a bit . . . sensitive? Early on, Cameron said something about emotional volatility, but I didn't think: me. I didn't think: raw.

I had forgotten that writing began, for me, in a difficult and painful time. Now, those memories and feelings come back to me. And not just those -- memories and feelings from very long ago.

No offense to those youngsters out there who have taken on this challenge, but I don't want to be twenty again. Well, maybe physically, but in no other way. I want peace, calm, surety in my days. Manageable affections. Acceptance of what is.

A big synchronicity to report this week -- but first, the more mundane.

I Dream of Dragons

Uploaded by wam mosely

 

Saturday 14 January 02006

I am sleeping in my bed, in a large room, when a handmade greeting card arrives. I find it charming. It flutters in the air and turns into a dragon. A baby dragon, with large, thin wings; so thin that they are nearly transparent.

The baby comes to me to snuggle, and I know that, even as an infant, this creature can be dangerous. It begins to nuzzle me & I realize, just as I am wounded, that it is trying to nurse.

My dog or cat tries to attack the dragon, & I protect it; I restrain my pet.

The dragon's mother appears, to nurse it, but I know that she will pass the baby on to me when it is weaned.

In the news: dragons are appearing everywhere. There is a move to kill them, but those of us whom the dragons have chosen will protect them.

This is my dragon.

Tagged

I have been tagged by Melba, who says she chose me because I wanted to know more about you. She has reframed the 4 Questions into 4 Artist's Way Questions, since she had already done this meme before she was tagged again -- so I'm not sure which ones she wants me to answer.

I'll answer an unasked one -- Yes, I am an Introvert -- in order to explain my decision to answer the original 4 Questions that are circulating around the internet:

The Artist's Way ~ Week 4: Recovering a Sense of Integrity

NO-READING week is over as of 10:00 pm tonight. And I will be glad to have it behind me.

I learned that not-reading does not, for me, free up vast amounts of energy, though it does free up time -- that commodity others covet, and of which I have plenty. I wrote a bit more. I watched the birds and squirrels in the garden. My camera broke, so I did not take lots of photos. The pets got more attention, which they are always happy to receive.

I drew every day, but only a little. I did not learn to use iTunes, nor did I learn to use the Wacom Tablet -- but the book I have for that is lots of words, so i decided to postpone it on that basis. I found that I wasn't very interested in television, even though I had some recordings ready to go. I listened to music, and the radio. I remembered why I used to listen to Praire Home Companion every week.

I did feel a bit more "in my body" -- not always a good thing.

Synchronicity - Wasteland & Green World

In Crossing to Avalon [the book I was reading when I discovered the Blogging the Artist's Way group] in the chapter called The Wasteland: Depression and Despair, Jean Shinoda Bolen tells the story of one of her patients:

His "nightmare" was actually a waking experience that probably lasted only a matter of seconds. It had occurred . . . at 2:00 P.M. on December 21. (Though he was unaware of it, December 21 is the winter solstice, the darkest time of the year; there could not have been a more symbolic date.) He was in a crosswalk near Union Square in San Francisco, in the midst of Christmas shoppers and holiday decorations, when suddenly he felt as if a motion picture had stopped and the scene had frozen. First motion and sound dropped away, and everyone and everything was suspended in a silent vacuum; then, as he watched in horror, all color drained out -- it was like "watching the world suddenly bleed to death" -- until everything was lifeless, immobile, and in shades of gray.

A moment later, everything was as it had been before . . .

He felt like he had gotten a glimpse of the ultimate reality, and it was empty, lifeless, meaningless. "This was what life really was like, what lay beyond the maya, or the illusion of life," he thought . . .

Most depressions that take such a toll in spirit last for many, many months, while his was over in a matter of seconds, minutes at the most. I told him that it was the mystical opposite of illumination. It was an experience of "endarkenment" as profound in its capacity to affect him as an experience of enlightenment and subsequent recollection might be.

I have had this experience. This exact experience.

Except it was the opposite.

It is nearly as vivid -- and indescribable -- to me today as it was when it occurred about thirty-five years ago. I was in my early twenties. It was summer -- we could even intuit that it was summer solstice.

I was walking, as I did daily, the two miles or so between work and home, in Billings, Montana. I don't recall paying any more attention than usual to the cement schoolyard on my left, or the paved street on my right, or the sidewalk under my feet -- but I noticed a weed pushing through the sidewalk crack, and then, suddenly, I was suspended in a silent vacuum, watching the green world explode around me.

Stems pushed up from the ground, cracking pavement, becoming vines and trees. It was as though I was in a timeless bubble, watching centuries unfold before me. Plants climbed buildings; structures cracked and eroded and shattered under the weight of vines, until any indication of human habitation was gone. It was all jungle, wild and green and very, very alive.

A moment later, everything was as it had been before . . .

I was standing on the sidewalk, on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day. But I knew that what had happened to me, what I had felt, was not ordinary, and I tried to hold it all the way home -- knowing that it would slip away, that feeling that has no language. And it did.

But the memory of it did not. The certainty of it -- that this was not crazy, this was not an hallucination -- this was something else, something real, even if outside of everyday experience -- that certainty stayed with me, too. Has stayed with me, all these silent years.

Bolen says:

His particular spiritual path was taking him through the desert or wasteland; he was on the via negativa, the path where soul encounters negation and pain . . . why some travel the via positiva while others must travel the via negativa is one of those unknowables.

I suspect that those who travel any spiritual path, travel both.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 3: Recovering a Sense of Power

Before I review this past week, I need to talk a bit about the next one. The primary assignment -- the challenging assignment -- for this next week is Reading Deprivation. As in: NO READING AT ALL. No blogs, no books, no newspapers, no magazines.

No blogs.

Well, you see my problem. Sadly, Cameron's argument is persuasive:

For most artists, words are like tiny tranquilizers. We have a daily quota of media chat that we swallow up . . . It is a paradox that by emptying our lives of distractions we are actually filling the well . . . We often cannot hear own own inner voice, the voice of our artist's inspiration, above the static . . . For most blocked creatives, reading is an addiction.

I do feel -- as I have felt before -- that she tends to ignore lives very different from her own, and I am tempted to insist that I am an exception. After all, I spend most of my waking hours sitting on a bed, reading. Reading is my connection to the world.

But, I fear she is correct, that it is also a distraction -- so I'm going to try this, with some exceptions. Because isolation is a problem for me, I am going to read my personal and blog-related email (which I must do, anyway, since comments on my blogs require my approval to be published.) But I will not sign on to the web communities I participate in, and I won't read 'list' email.

I will continue to post to Watermark -- I have a few posts prepared ahead of time -- but I won't be reading your blogs this week. Some of you may have noticed that I put Chatango back on the sidebar awhile back; if I am online, I'll sign in to that -- but I don't expect that will be often.

The Artist's Way ~ Notes: Recovering a Sense of Power

Cameron says Life is what we make of it, which is easily said by those of us who have it easy. But I've written about this before, and I don't want to feel angry this morning -- another topic of this chapter -- so let me expand on what I do agree with.

Synchronicity: I suspect this has to do with what we choose to pay attention to, rather than whether the universe is moving to support us. I think we can choose to pay attention to those things that make us unhappy, or to those things that encourage us. And I think that both of these categories are plentiful for most of us.

I also know that, as human beings, we are driven to make sense of the world even if our explanations are mistaken. So if we can choose explanations that both work in the real world, and bring us more balance, joy, and contentment than others that are equally reasonable -- why not choose the first? Social research seems to suggest -- in its early and experimental days, still -- that those who believe, who have faith, who belong to congregations, live longer and happier days than those of us who do not.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 2: Recovering a Sense of Identity

This past week's theme was Recovering a Sense of Identity. Actually, at fifty-seven, I have a pretty strong sense of identity -- not that reminders aren't helpful. This next week -- Recovering a Sense of Power -- in which she talks about faith, and shame -- is going to be a challenge.

Again, though, all of this, the assumptions behind it, remind me of my privilege, and my limitations. This book is written for those of us with resources of all kinds -- health, time, wealth (by which I mean, our Western standard of living.) It is rich with ideas that are useful, helpful, for us individually, but -- I think -- can be downright dangerous when expanded into the political and economic world we so safely ignore.

The Artist's Way ~ Week 1: Recovering a Sense of Safety

I began this a bit late, but will count this as the end of the first week [Recovering a Sense of Safety] of doing The Artist's Way. I'm tired. This was a cold, gray day, after a long and restless night. There was some brightness, a few blue sky patches and new snow on the mountains.

I've been doing morning pages since Tuesday. The dogs and I are still negotiating this change of schedule. Fortunately, I've been blessed with patient dogs.

Last night I read Week 2| Recovering a Sense of Identity. Again, there is much that would have been meaningful for me twenty years ago, but is less so now. I have few Crazymakers or Poisonous Playmates in my life today; one thing illness does is weed out the people patch.

The Artisit's Way ~ Knock-Down Artists

This isn't the fun part, thinking about what blocks me; who and what in my life has discouraged me from believing in my capacity to create. Or in myself.

And since I've done this exercise many times before, I decided to go right to the list of champions: those who wish me and my creativity well.

The thing is, when I stop and pay attention to this, when I make the prescribed list -- it's an impressive list. It's a list of excellent poets and writers, all of whom have told me my work is good. Terry Tempest Williams, who isn't even on my teacher list since I met with her only one time, told me many years ago to stop going to workshops and start publishing.

So who is this?

I still find this immensely funny, even in this context; even though I'm the one face down. Except, apparently I'm the trickster as well.

Maybe it's not so amusing in this context.

Seriously, how is it possible to have so much encouragement (the readers of this blog, for instance) and still feel so much doubt about the quality, the usefulness, of my work? Clearly I'm not as resolved about this as I thought.

I want to observe how fortunate we (the participants in this Artist's Way experiment) are, to have the technology, the time, the resources to indulge ourselves in this way. Such introspection is a luxury. Not that we ought not enjoy it; just that I feel the need to acknowledge its rarity.

The Artist's Way ~ Difficulties

The difficulty with projects like this is that you are expected to do something. Besides read the book, I mean.

Homework.

For this, we are assigned morning pages, daily; an artist date, weekly; and tasks that vary each week. This week, we are to identify our core negative beliefs (blurts) and counter them with creative affirmations. OK, I ask myself -- when do I get too old for this? How many times, in how many different ways, must I do this? Yes, I was one of those old-fashioned therapists that actually believed in what I was doing, and indulged in it myself. Twenty years ago (or so) this included examining exactly these issues.

The Artist's Way ~ Begin Again

Today I started playing catch-up with the AW group. This involved:

• Discovering that the dusty book by my bedside is not The Artist's Way, but another by the same author, Julia Cameron: The Right to Write. This book has many of the same exercises, which is why I was confused.
• Finding a copy of The Artist's Way on my bookshelf, nice and shiny, back unbroken.
• Doing my first (in awhile) morning pages.
• Beginning to explore the other blogs participating in this activity. There are a lot; I decided to start with the A's.

Diving Down

Well, perhaps I will do a bit of writing.

My stats are way down. This may, of course, be seasonal -- or not. I know what I should do about it: network. Visit lots of sites. Comment. Actually I often visit (though rarely comment) anyway.

The thing is, I'm feeling unusually introverted lately. This too may be seasonal. It may be sadness; my dear friend Abigail has returned to England after far too brief a visit. And of course the sky is grey, the days are brief, dreams are bewildering.

Today, as I surfed about the web, I found, at paper napkin, the solution (or a path, anyway): a group of folks are blogging Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. This book has been on my bedside table for -- well, years. I have dipped into it off and on, and done some of the exercises, off and on. Time to dust it off. I mean that literally.

I'm late (they started last week) but it's suitable, I think, for my current state of mind. I'm also playing with Danny Gregory's The Creative License and reading Crossing to Avalon by Jean Shinoda Bolen, another book that has been on the shelf so long its pages have yellowed. This is a nice mix, and doing The Artist's Way with others may give me some structure and support as I stumble through winter's unconsciousness.

So stay tuned. Who knows what may appear here in the next few weeks.