The blank canvas The blank page The clutter-free desk The cleared-off cooking space. The beginning of something not yet created. The infinite potential The spark of creativity or action. To create something And fill up that space with something new That never existed. And that’s why I return again and again to the page: To a clean space, To make/create something. It is the meaning of life. If we are all creative, It’s the perfect medium to create. I can set the tone of my day, Which sets the tone of my Creative, connected life. On full moons, I always have vivid dreams And creative insight. I capture it here. The page holds all of my fears And creative dreams. It makes my creativity a reality. It is a give and take. A creative relationship That I take action toward And life works. It works for me. I feel light And in a mastery of my life.
Tag: life
Deciduous Trees (Part 2)
Deciduous trees start with a delicate beauty And end in vibrant hues again. The tree’s true colors are exposed. There is no holding back, conforming to standards or blending in. To spend the rest of your days in that beautiful authentic expression is something to behold and cherish. Unapologetic without concern of backlash. I celebrate the new blooms. They remind me of a fresh start And the excitement of something new. Fragile like the robin’s nest Sturdy and well made But too low to the ground. Not enough protection to promote healthy offspring. Life is all around us. The birds are learning too. They must feel loss. The robins lost their shelter, their home base. Is it too late to try again? Is nature a cruel teacher? Not so if it prevents future loss of life. We don’t punish the birds. It’s the nature of things. And death too is a part of that cycle Whether we like it or not. And we are a part of nature. It can never be removed No matter how urban and modern our surroundings. The pink blossoms are in their full glory And I am delighted.
The blank page is my refuge
My journals lead me, guide me, remind me, comfort me and show me. I’ve been keeping a journal since high school. They often lead me to the answer or solution. They lead me to insights. They guide me to the next steps to take or can serve as a gentle nudge. They can be a light in the dark; a map showing the easy and difficult terrain ahead; an exit to safe passage. My journals remind me of what I had forgotten.
They are a tool that is portable and accessible. I find the space to cope, hash out, dissect, examine, vent, relax, pause, slow down and breathe, and integrate: To be the observer of thought. My own words can comfort me during times of sickness, heartbreak, anguish, or confusion. It’s like a warm cup of tea or being wrapped up in a cozy blanket. I can enjoy and savor the moments.
My journals have showed me how much I’ve changed, my ever evolving inner and outer circumstances and how I dealt with various people, events and places. They serve as a still frame, a reflecting mirror, a magnifying glass as to who I was on month/day/year and what mattered to me then. Can I see how I got from there to here? The most important part of my journals is that it records my timeline and becomes tangible evidence of my life. My inner thoughts are brought onto the page for time immemorial; like a time capsule if I dare to look back.
The notebook:
In my teens they were one-subject notebooks. “Psychology,” “History,” “Oceanography” in large print on the cover. Who would want to look inside of that? Who would care to see my chicken scratch of quickly jotted notes? To their surprise it would not be. The subject on the cover was a ruse, a lie to cover up its true contents. A teenage girl who shared a room in a tiny apartment with five other family members does not have much privacy or space to call her own.
I discovered journaling could be the safety net I so desperately needed to deal with the trauma, the heartbreak, the teenage angst, the big questions, the fears, the boredom of not being able to go anywhere unless it was by foot or public transportation. Through journaling, I discovered my love of the written word. I tapped into that creative well and poetry began to appear on the page. It lit me up to hear my words rhythmically along the page. Instead of wallowing in despair and hurt or numbing myself with illicit substances, I went within. I found myself. I saved myself.
Now in my 40s I still turn to the blank page. These days I’m not looking for anything in particular to appear but the journals are more like creating an opening. I’m deliberately making creative space and taking the time to see what’s beneath the surface. What grain of salt or sparkling spec catches the light of my attention today. My notebooks lately have been simple composition notebooks that I slip on a pretty cloth cover.
I am the observer, the recorder of thought, and it will always be my refuge.
Whose plan is it anyway?
Life has a way of not going according to plan. Whose plan is it anyway? “Oh, those silly humans still think they can control their lives and circumstances.”
Of course, that doesn’t mean we should just lay back and let life happen to us and around us passively. We need to take action and be the director of our own life’s work. Choose what skills, experiences and relationships we want to pursue with our time, energy and money. And let go of what doesn’t fit or work any longer. Let go of our silly pride, clinging to unreal outcomes, lost dreams or wearing our failures like a badge of honor. Stuck and unwilling to see what else is around the corner. It is a symbiotic relationship with our nature and nature itself.
We suffer less when we’re not surprised when things go awry because that is what it means to be alive. It can be pleasant, heartbreaking, triumphant or a huge loss.
What do we do next? Pick up the fragments left behind, be our own excavator to learn from the experience, and continue down this journey that belongs to no one but ourselves.
Healing Insights 