art journal: 1.25.18

Am I an artist trying to be a writer or a writer trying to be an artist?

This is the roadblock I could never cross.  This is what haunts me, when I'm suddenly paralyzed by the brush, but can't sleep for the paragraphs pouring out of my mind.   Once I tried to answer, I am definitely a writer who enjoys painting, I said. That would be my answer.  I could live with that.  Then for weeks, I heard nothing but swirling colors and I was tormented with the lack of words.  The roadblock remained, for a long time.

This year, I made a promise to myself, not a resolution, too trendy, but a declaration.  I told only one friend, I knew she would keep it safe.  She replied with an emphatic, absolutely yes.  Right in the face of my optimism and certainty, that bloody roadblock appeared.  I wrestled with it for a while and then something new happened.  

I decided to stop asking the question.  This is how it went down.

It was in the middle of prepping for our school day, in the throes of making breakfast and reminding children about frivolous things, like brushing teeth and wearing clothes.  I was standing in my dining room.  On the table, my sketchbook was open and like a flash of light, a direct message came to me. I didn't turn to a blank page for fear of losing it.  I began to fill in the spaces of a recent sketch.  I can see now how appropriate that was.  I wrote this:

The question I keep asking, am I a writer or an artist?  How much time have I wasted asking a question that I have never been required to answer? Here is what I know.  I am a writer, I need words. Words are like breathing.  I am an artist, I need colors.  Colors are like breathing.  I need to keep breathing.  I have been entrusted with not just one, but two ways to create beauty, two tools for the journey.  I will stop trying to create a box and go forth breathing under this giant sky.

I set down my pen.  I read my scribbles and took let a new breath fill me.
Okay, then, that's what we're going to do, I said aloud to myself, to my creator, to the creative energy in the air.   There are times when we must audibly express important things to the collective that keeps us going. Mostly, this is for us, since the collective- the creator and the spirit, they already know. They are far less prone to doubting than we are.

The power of the roadblock was gone.  I suddenly saw that no one, not a single person, not even the maker of the universe have ever asked me to answer it. I never needed to pick one. I was battling a foe that I had created and it was the very thing holding me back.

I recently listened to Elizabeth Gilbert's Ted Talk, called "Our Elusive Creative Genius,"  because my husband came home from work and told me to, which sounds deeply authoritarian, but it's more of an intuitive understanding between us.  For example, a few years ago, he was wandering around the book store and when he claimed that one title jumped out at him.  He read the back cover and bought it immediately, believing that I needed it, right then.  I had been in serious creative rut. I got lost in the story, tears flowed and a bit of spark returned to my eyes. It was a major turning point, I'll never forget. When I told him about it, he just smiled and said, I know.  Intuition is highly valued in our home.  So, naturally,  I listened to Elizabeth Gilbert the next morning.  

She told a story of a poet working in the field who felt a poem fluttering on the wind.  She immediately put down her tools and rushed home to catch the words, before the breeze was gone.  Another story was about Tom Waits, being stuck in traffic when the words to a song came over him.  He angrily shouted to the sky, "Not now, can't you see I'm busy?"  Good stuff.

So, I decided to give it a try.  Tuesday morning, I felt a fierce sense of restlessness. I was longing for new sights and surroundings. Not like normal people are tired of curtains,  but in the "I could get rid of everything and we will be gypsies," sort of way.  The only thing I could really do was wash all the curtains and bed linens, which did not help. I had appointments and lessons to teach. I couldn't rush off to the sea and I didn't have time to paint, so I stood in my quiet room and said, " I am going to need you to wait a minute."  I wasn't sure what would happen.

The next day, when the afternoon settled down, I set out my supplies, turned on really loud music, something with all the feelings and well placed choice words, and spoke out loud, "Okay, now's the time, let's do this."  It was a beautiful experience, exhaling things I could only vocalize with a brush in my hand.  I did not ask what I was making.  I did ask to understand.  I let paint drip and mix.  I watched water trickle down in a brilliant dance.  Then, I felt or heard, now stop.  This voice should be obeyed.  It is to be trusted. So, I sat quietly with the peace that surrounded me, delighted in the weight lifted from my shoulders. Thankful for the tools I have been given to sort of life.  It didn't matter what I had created, but that I had. I showed up and did my part.  The spirit showed up and washed all my feelings into color.  The process was the answer and the painting was the story.  

Next I heard something else, turn it around.  Of course, I did.

That's when I saw something new.

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I wonder what other questions are just standing in the way?