On Madness and Creativity

In response to Claudette’s weekly writing challenge #10: Discernment
http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

Much madness is divinest sense
to a discerning eye;
Much sense, the sharpest madness
                                                                             __Emily Dickinson

I found this quote a few days ago. Seeing as Claudette’s weekly writing challenge is the word Discernment, I let the quote take me into a thought path that I haven’t visited for some time. It dovetailed into several other things as well.

There are some myths about the close relationship between Madness and the Creative Genius, and because most myths are based somewhere in a bit of truth, the subject is well worth looking into. Scientific research has been able to link the two in some respects. The intensity and focus associated with creative endeavors, and the natural let-down when the project is completed seems to mirror the manic-depressive mood swings of Bi-polar Disorder. That however, does not mean they are one and the same.

For centuries, we have thought of Creativity as the rare domain of a gifted few…the Artists. When in all reality creative energy is inherent in all individuals. There would be no growth, no progress, or evolution if that were not the reality. But, the human mindset is toward the making, creating of hierarchies, linear progressions that move up or down. Thus, the majority of individuals might find themselves on the low end when it comes to artistic skill and ability. Crafts and hobbies, versus Art with a capital A.

My mind jumps to numerous examples. My father, who late in life, finally had the time and space to set up a woodworking shop in the basement. He made tables, toys for his grandchildren, plant holders, and even clocks. One of his creations hangs on my living room wall, while another holds a green plant that was given to me as a gift and holds a place of prominence in the same room. My Mother’s painting which wasn’t begun until after she turned sixty and had a bout with cancer.

These things are considered hobbies, no more than craft projects, yet they are beautiful in their own right, and entail hours of learning and work. And therein, might be considered a bit mad. Why all the time and effort put into things that will never bring about material success or public recognition (although my mother did have a one woman local showing of her artistry, and Dad did sell a few of his creations)?

The rest of the world might disagree, but I would and do define both of my parents as Artists. What’s more, I define myself as such, as well. I write and I color. Both of those things are creative endeavors. They bring hours of satisfaction, personal pleasure, and a great deal of creative beauty into my life and the lives of those around me. In the world’s eye, I might never be successful because I don’t make money at what I do, nor do I gain a great deal of public recognition for any of it. So, does that make it madness to continue?

Because we have created this sort of High End/Low End scale of artistic talent, we have also created an elite group of those who can, and a majority of others who wish they could. Personally, I think that is madness. I heartily agree with Emily Dickinson on this one. She retreated into her room, was seen as an eccentric by most, and never recognized as an American Poet of some amount of skill and ability until after her death. Did she care? Who really knows? She followed her own path and now we can take part, and find pleasure in her creations.

Emily, in her white clothing and isolation, stepped completely outside the norm of the society she inhabited. At the time, that was called, and defined as Madness, yet today it is defined as Artistry of a superior nature. And I think that is what troubles me about this seeming connection between Madness and Creativity. I think we might have it all backwards.

Instead of looking at Creative Genius and comparing it to Madness, we might be far better off turning that all around and perhaps looking more closely at our definitions and the affect they might be having on the individuals who are concerned. I think there are a great many individuals out there who want, maybe even yearn to explore their creative energies and get blocked by the fear of being defined as nuts should they do so.

That was brought home to me when I got peripherally involved in a discussion going on at

http://blogs.harvardbusiness.org/cs/2008/10/i_just_quit_my_job_am_i_crazy.html

What started as one man writing about his personal choice to quit his well-paying job in order to pursue his personal interests, turned into months of discussion from around the globe. The discussion continues into the present, and actually centers around the idea of doing exactly what Emily Dickinson did. She opted out of the role society defined as hers as a woman, and followed her bliss. Again, was that madness? From her words, I think not.

Creative energy is an element of healing. Our creative endeavors heal our souls. Bring them peace in a chaotic and over-stimulated environment. Because that is real, our creative endeavors, no matter if they are “high” or “low”, also alter and change our world. The peace I find in coloring a pretty design, ripples outward to anyone I come in contact with.

The opposite of all of that is the thought that at least some of the madness in the world today, might just be blocked creative genius. Madness that is seeking healing, yet is blocked from ever participating in that healing. Can’t get past the barriers of definition that have been placed on it. Emily might have been considered a bit ‘mad’ in her day, but was she? Or, was she just an individual who realized that she only had one life to live, and wrote poetry instead of making friends, getting married, and perhaps dying in childbirth? Leaving the generations that came after her with a gap of silence about death and its many emotional and psychological ramifications and definitions?

Emily wrote poetry. I write poetry. She wrote about her memories, and about death. I write about memories, and changes. She favored white dresses. I favor soft colorful flannel lounging pants. She was a recluse. I often call myself a quasi-hermit. She was considered a bit mad and eccentric. I believe I am considered a bit strange, but funny as well. She populated her world with words. I do the same and have added a great deal of color. Are we the same? Yes, in some respects, no in others.

I once wrote that one of the people I would really like to meet is Emily Dickinson, but if we did, she probably wouldn’t speak because of shyness. That’s okay, because I could certainly talk enough for both of us.

Hello Emily. My name is Elizabeth. I just recently realized that your middle name is the same. Isn’t that a wonderful piece of synchronicity? I hope you don’t mind, but I intend to enter your name in my personal Hall of Heroes.

She would think I was Mad! That’s okay, that just gives us more common ground.

My Fight With Red

In response to Claudette’s Challenge #2 The Art of Humility

Flamingo Dance

 

I have been coloring Mandalas and have mentioned that here and elsewhere. Although I love doing so, I also like a challenge. I wanted to do something more intricate then the simple designs I was finding on the Internet. Last week, I found a Dover book of Kaleidoscopic Designs by Lester Kubistal. It was just what I had been seeking.

My daughter came over yesterday and suddenly became aware of the many images I have been playing with. She really liked what she was seeing and started asking me if I’d do one for her with reds in it. I hemmed and hawed around and finally confessed that I have a great deal of trouble with the reds when coloring.

Red is the color of passion, but also of rage and anger. It is also the color of fire, warmth, and thus, creative energy. These are all things I know about and have written about and discussed for years. Yet, when it came to putting that color on paper it always seemed to fight me and the other colors. I had tried it many times and it just wasn’t working with or for me.

So, I had been sort of ignoring it. Using other friendlier colors. Ones that would lay down and do what I expected and definitely play nice with all the other hues I was toying with. In the back of my mind, I knew I would eventually have to confront this peculiar dilemma, but for the moment I really just wanted to enjoy what I was doing in peace. So I have been substituting the rust tones for the reds, making up excuses why they just work better with the blues and greens.

However, my daughter’s enthusiasm and eagerness brought the pending confrontation to the fore immediately. So I admitted to her that I just didn’t fully comprehend the function of red, in the scheme of things. It wouldn’t cooperate with me, so I wasn’t using it. I think that’s called spite and avoidance.

After she and her friends left, I got out one of my new designs and decided to take the plunge. I put two different shades of red at the very center of the design because that would mean that it would need to be repeated if  the design was going to work at all. Kaleidoscopes work on color and mirror images of those colors.

I have learned a great deal by engaging in this activity that is seen as child’s play. Although I took four years of Art in high school, and was even the teacher’s assistant in my senior year, I had never really learned about colors and how they interact on and affect one another. That may seem a bit incomprehensible, but I had a good beginner’s eye for color and that sufficed for most of my art activities. Until a few months ago when I began doing this thing with the entire spectrum of possibilities.

This has been a learn as you go process for me. But one of the most important lessons I have learned is that mistakes are not necessarily mistakes. They can be new paths opening up right in front of me. New ways of seeing things, and new movements to be tried. And yesterday, after admitting my ignorance, I did all of those things.

About half way through, incredibly pleased with what was coming alive beneath my fingers, I made a choice that could have been disastrous to the design and this new wrestling with the color red. One of the problems with laying down red is that its so difficult to cover up. It has a tendency to bleed into anything one might use to mend the image and quickly becomes a muddy mess. But there I was, half way through this wonderful little jewel of an image and there was red, sticking her tongue out at me and giving me a really loud raspberry to boot.

I refused to quit and throw out all of that work. I do know one thing, black will cover anything and still remain black. So I raspberried right back at red and she was so shocked she actually cooperated with my ongoing efforts. She became, if one might say it, compliable with my efforts. I really like the outcome and learned another valuable lesson.

It’s perfectly okay to admit out loud that you’ve made a mistake. The only thing that stands in the way of that is pride. Pride is the direct opposite of humility and humility steps up to bat when pride is lowered or even given the out signal. I can be grateful to my daughter for bringing my dilemma to the forefront. I can be grateful that I finally admitted that I was having problems and also avoiding them, and in doing so, exiling myself from the full spectrum of my own experience.

Perhaps that means that humility is really the color black. Able to absorb all other colors, yet toss them back again for better choices. Able to cover the worst mistakes and open up new doors of possibility. I like that and really love what I do, when it finally all fits together and makes something beautiful that didn’t exist before. Red and I may never become bosom buddies, but we at least now, have the beginnings for a multitude of new adventures and future engagements.

Stone and Water and the Red-Cross Driver

 

I’ve been sitting here, in front of this blank page, for over half an hour. So many thoughts about what I could write have floated in and out of my head, that if strung together, and actually written down, would probably fill a book. Not that the book would make any sense, unless it was a volume of random short essays about diverse topics that might, or might not, connect one with another. I seem to be sitting still in the midst of a flow that just keeps moving around me, like a boulder in a riverbed.

Although that boulder seems unchanging, it isn’t. Stone gets worn away by the friction of constantly flowing water. Which only reminds me of the lyrics of a song: Solid stone is just sand and water, baby, sand and water and a million years gone by (Beth Nielsen Chapman). I don’t have a million years. I have today, this moment, and maybe the next. No more. Don’t want to waste it.

I didn’t come here and write yesterday. Had appointments in the outside world. Things to do, people to be with. That might be why I can’t seem to pick a place and just get started today. Have somehow turned into stone overnight. That was a really short million years.

Think I am still sorting out all that happened yesterday. The people I talked with, some strangers, others family and friends. The things I saw and touched, each left an impression like water flowing around a stone. Each taking a moment of my time, some more moments than others. I wrote about a lot of that in my journal this morning. But, apparently I’m not finished yet. Maybe because the water doesn’t stop flowing, it just keeps moving. And because it does, both the water and the stone are changed.

I wonder, did my presence in all of those moments yesterday, change or alter anything or anyone? The Red-Cross driver, a volunteer who picked me up to deliver me to my appointment. We spoke about his coming drive to Florida where he and his wife have rented a Condo for the coming month. My brother and his wife have done the same for many years, so the driver and I had a point of contact.

My counselor, whom I haven’t seen since before Christmas. The intensity of our discussion which ranged from Creativity, to Meditation, Dissociative Trance States, and mending the holes in my soul, and relationships. That altered me, made me think in new ways, and I know she will do the same.

My sister and Mother and all the staff and customers at the Goodwill store where we went shopping. The practical things I bought, and the one exquisite gift I chose to give myself, all for under twenty dollars. Those will change the way I deal with future moments. And I will alter them by that use.

The calm quiet exchanges between myself and my Mother and sister. The trading of opinions, giving of directions, and the slow smiles of shared feelings and thoughts. Changes from the hectic exchanges during the holidays, and a bit of mending in what could have been strained moments, will definitely alter all of us, perhaps minutely, but those alterations were felt and accepted with ease and gladness.

Yes, the stone has moved and been moved. Is still settling back into place. Has more experiences scheduled for today and tomorrow and the next. And in all those moments there were, and will be, changes and exchanges. Minute bits of stone becoming sand once again, altering its purpose and function, and its environment. Being equally altered in the process.

Were any of those exchanges more important than the others? Depends on where I am looking at them from. In this moment, the exchanges with family members hold more weight, but who is to say that the Red-Cross driver won’t meet my brother in Florida and find they enjoy playing golf together and eventually thank me for whatever occurs while they do so? And will I even remember that initial exchange months from now?

When I arrived back home, there was a package leaning against my door. A small book of coloring designs for me to dive into. Something I ordered on a whim last week. And spent most of the evening pouring through and working with last night. A new avenue to explore and enjoy. Some of the best exchanges are those I have with myself. Someone else might define it as just more sand, lost in the flow of time and water, but I would certainly beg to differ.

Each day that passes is filled with moments. Moments that mean exchanges with everything and everyone I brush up against. They alter me, as I alter them. I am not a stone, not a boulder in the middle of life’s stream, even though I may feel that way on any given day. I am flesh and blood, living and breathing through each of those moments. I am both water and stone, time and sand, and so much more, all at the same time. Which of these are you in the present moment?

Challenges

In response to Claudette’s Writing Challenge # 1  “the Power of Creativity”

Was very surprised when I went to check out the Writer’s Island prompt for today. The site has been closed and there will be no more weekly prompts. Was disappointed, to say the least. But then, being who I am and wanting to encourage others to write, I made a decision to create my own challenges.

I had another site, which was going by the wayside. Hadn’t been using it or posting to it at all. So I deleted everything from it and set up a writing challenge for anyone who is interested. Being a former writing instructor, I do have a lot of those at hand. I plan to post a writing challenge every Friday morning. You can find it at:

http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

I will also probably respond to my own challenges. That’s what I did in my classroom and I might as well continue. And there is no better time to start than right now.

The Power of Creativity is a rather large subject matter, but I believe that each individual has creative power built into the original design. It is the energy that creates growth and healing. It includes inspiration, mental and physical skills and abilities, and is not limited by narrowed definitions.

The first class I taught was titled Connecting With Your Creativity. I was incredibly nervous because it was happening on the campus of the four year University from which I had graduated in years past. When the Director of the program introduced me as the Instructor, I almost couldn’t speak. But, I did eventually. One of the first exercises I had my students do was to write out very quickly, a brief paragraph of how they saw creativity at work in their own lives. Then went around the room and asked them to read what they had written.

It was a small group and everyone responded, until I got to the last woman there. She read what she had written and it became the first direct challenge I was to encounter as a new teacher. She had written about how she didn’t have a creative bone in her body. After trying for years, several different disciplines such as writing, painting, and music, she had given up and thrown in the towel. She simply wasn’t a creative human being.

My first thought, and I definitely didn’t voice it, was why would you take a class about connecting with your creativity if you truly believed you had none? Instead, I asked her to define what she meant by creativity. She immediately said, “The Big A, Art. You know, music, painting, drawing, all of those things.” The room was terribly silent, I wasn’t the only one aware that I was being challenged.

So I asked her if she thought that making a delicious home cooked meal that was nurturing as well as attractive was a creative skill. She said yes, of course it was. Then I asked her if a father who put his children to bed each night by telling them made up stories that included characters with each of his children’s names was engaging in creative energy. She nodded emphatically. And all of a sudden the room came alive.

Each person there had another example to add to the list. People they knew at work, or casually, neighbors and friends, who did very creative things that didn’t fit under her Big A umbrella. The two of us were grinning at each other by the time that little, but really important discussion ended and I could go on with the class I had planned out so carefully.

In the course of the next six weeks, that woman became one of the most enthusiastic students I have ever had. She eagerly participated in every exercise I presented, both writing, and other activities. At the end of the six week period, she came to class with a petition she had written up and planned to pass around to the other members in the classroom. It was addressed to the Director of the Program, asking that I be allowed to teach a second class on the same subject matter. The Director agreed, and I became a free-lance writing instructor, specializing in writing based classes for self-awareness and personal growth.

The power of creativity is that it is an energy that can be felt and experienced on all kinds of levels. It calls for a response. It initiates action, it gets us moving and thinking. And it is a healing energy for all of those reasons. To give it some sort of elite definition, is to miss its real importance altogether. For some of us, the mere fact of getting up and getting dressed is a creative activity. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has had that particular experience of enticing myself out of a prone position.

I did it this morning, as a matter of fact. When I realized that there would be no writing prompt this week, or any of the weeks to follow, I was very tempted to go back to bed and just forget it. Instead, I am here responding to my own challenge, writing about my own experience and connecting once again with my own unique creative power. Can, or will you do the same?

Signature Strokes

 

In the world of Fine Art, such as painting, one can, if one has the knowledge of such things, know who the painter is without seeing a signature somewhere on the canvas. It has to do with the manner in which the artist lays the colors onto the canvas, sometimes the choice of subject matter is also a clue. That distinguishing mark is called a Signature Stroke. Thus, even an untrained eye can catch the difference between Michelangelo’s full three dimensional human figures, and Van Gogh’s brilliantly lit pastoral scenes, or Picasso’s cubism from Salvador Dali’s melting timepieces.

Each of these painters was an individual first, before becoming an artist. Each of them lived in a different place, time, and had very distinct individual experiences that trained their eyes to see in different and unique ways. And those differences were conveyed to their subjects and the manners in which each of them expressed what they painted. Each of them, during the process of expression, developed a very distinctly recognizable Signature Stroke.

That distinguishing stroke applies to most forms of expression. Frank Sinatra did it My Way, and although others might do that same song in their own fashion, it will always bring Old Blue Eyes to mind when it is heard. Fashion designers build whole careers, as well as fortunes, on creating a look that is easily recognizable by those who can afford their products. A Signature Stroke is simply that which marks the particular expression from others, makes it uniquely individual as such. And the competition to establish such individuality is extremely fierce in all fields.

We, as individuals, are each unique. I have been writing about just that for a long time now. We each have our own way of doing things, our own perceptions, and definitions of the way things work and their meanings. And whether or not we set out to do so, that means that each of us have been, or are, in the process of developing a Signature Stroke.

In the world of writing, which is the one I speak to most frequently, there is a definite Signature Stroke experience. No one will, or can, lay down words in the same exact fashion in which I do, or you do, for that matter. My words are shaped and formed by my individual experience, and so is the choice of subject matter. And the same goes for each of you who might be reading these words I am laying down on this canvas called a blog.

Someone else may very well write about keeping an ongoing journal, but they will do that in their own unique style and the manner in which they perceive it. We may even agree on the majority of issues that arise under the heading of that topic, but we will not choose the same exact words to do that.

Someone else might focus in on making rules to write by. I, obviously would see that differently. And that is absolutely necessary, because there are individuals out there who need to know the rules before they can begin, and then there are those, like myself, who balk at the very thought. And between us, myself and this imaginary other writer, we will cover a bit of the territory that entails a broader and wider view of the entire subject.

And, by the way, readers also have a distinct Signature Stroke. It can be seen in the choice of reading materials. There is an entire world out there that could care less about these words I am laying down and will never even think to read them. Just as there are worlds of words out there that I would never take a glance at, simply because they don’t particularly interest me.

The point I am trying to get at is that devilish issue of comparison. It stems from that absolute necessity to choose one thing over another, listen to one voice rather than another, especially where it concerns the development of that Signature Stroke we all have and use on a daily basis.

Comparisons, especially when made in the arena of creativity are deadly. They are extremely poisonous to the fragile creative element in all of us. Creative energy is a healing element built into the human psyche. And it can be killed off, murdered by one misplaced and thoughtless comparison.

Yet, comparisons are a daily, ongoing experience. How do we choose, if we don’t compare this to that? The problem originates when we apply those comparisons to our own person and the creative activities we engage in. We all need to engage in creativity of one sort or another. It is healing because it allows some form of release in lives that are constantly stressful and can often become overwhelming.

Creativity is an expression of ones individual self. Whether it is found in a well cooked meal, a delightfully told story, or the composing of an opera, it is all the same and provides the same things for the individuals thus engaged. My schtick ( I love that word), is encouraging others to write on a regular basis. It is an extremely cheap form of self-expression, therefore creativity. It is my effort to help heal the world I live in, while healing my own inner person.

But, if I compare my own writing to that of others, I will always first find fault with my own. We are our own worst enemies on this one. I am an expert on how many ways I do this incorrectly and could make a list, that might go on for pages, concerning how badly I do this thing. What would it prove? That maybe I should try cubism? It’s far too late for that, and I already know I wouldn’t have the patience for that kind of detailed work.

Nope, I will continue to stick with my schtick, even if I don’t do it as well as hundreds of others out there. They remain out there, while I am here, inside my own skin, doing this thing I love to do, and although I know I don’t do it perfectly, I do it well, on occasion. That, in turn,  lifts me up, it sings through my veins, and it makes me happy to be so engaged. That makes it, for no other reason, the healthiest thing for me to be doing.  

This writing might be considered square, even “cubic”, to others, but that doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. And as long as I steer clear of comparing what I do to what others do, I will find my own form of happiness right here on these pages. I might even find my own Signature Stoke, and wouldn’t that be something to write about?

Butterfly Day

Butterfly Day

I have found a new form of therapy. Coloring. I love it. The logic part of the brain is occupied with keeping the color between the lines. But the rest of the mind is free to roam and make connections, presenting them to me in both words and images: pieces of conversation, thoughts I’d had on certain subjects, phrases that until now, were separate things, suddenly find themselves together making a new sort of sense of old things.

Laying down the colors is both soothing and meditative in some fashion. Each image is different, filled with possibilities, and it is wonderful to watch the images come alive and take shape beneath my hands. I have found numerous sites on the Internet where one can download and print a seemingly inexhaustible variety of coloring pages of diverse images and topics to ‘create’. I have visited many of them and downloaded a great many of the pictures which, for the most part, are free and take  very little time to prepare. I usually scan them and then crop to the size I want, then print them on card stock. I use fine art pens because the color is far more vibrant, but that is my own personal choice. One could choose to use any number of coloring tools, ranging from crayons to water color pencils.

And these images are becoming a part of my journal pages. The colors are meaningful and can be used to explore ones own experience and psyche. Take my butterfly above. Green is the color of growth, while blue represents knowledge. The background of yellow symbolizes the sun and speaks to prosperity and well-being. These are my personal choices, as far as meaning goes, and I have used them for many years. More important is the symbol of the butterfly itself, which speaks to transformation and change.

The butterfly has four stages of development: the egg, or larva stage; the caterpillar; then the chrysalis or pupa stage; and finally the butterfly or reproductive stage. These, in turn, can be compared with our own stages of growth and the learning process. The metamorphosis of the butterfly from egg to full maturity is a continuing work in progress and so are we.

It can be of great value to track our own experience on certain levels in order to avoid frustration and a negative self-attitude. Why beat yourself up because you are at the caterpillar stage, which is also known as the feeding stage, taking in what will be necessary for the next stage of growth, realizing the necessity of being right where one should be instead of farther along in the process. It would be nice if we were all born knowing exactly what we need to know, but that just isn’t our reality. There is a purpose and focus to each stage of being and its good to remember that.

I also find that the soothing affect of coloring is a great stress reliever. Somehow, in the very act of creativity, I find myself releasing, letting go of those things that have been bothering me, especially on the emotional level. Creative energy is a built in healing process, and this is certainly an inexpensive means of accomplishing that. I have used it to create gifts for others, that have a far more personal meaning than anything I could have purchased.

We, my family, will be gathering for our Christmas exchange this morning. My older sister will be coming in with her daughter and three granddaughters. Because they live at a distance, they don’t usually attend this yearly festivity. When I found out they were coming, I wanted to have gifts for them as well. I had been downloading images of butterflies to use for another gift idea, but decided to use them instead for my sister’s family. I had purchased several different size frames, at rummage sales, this past summer. With little time and a bit of effort, I found several of the same size, reduced some of the prints to match those sizes, and wrapped them up.

As I was finishing this project, my sister called me to tell me she would be seeing me today. She asked me what I was doing. I laughingly told her that I was making a ‘butterfly day’ for herself and her girls. She is extremely curious about what I meant. I left the images uncolored, so they each will be able to choose whatever color scheme they prefer. I really like the idea and image of all of them gathered together, coloring their butterflies, making a gift for themselves, which will have special meaning to each one.

When I was finished wrapping and packing it all away, I sat down and colored the image above  for myself. It will go into my journal entry for today. A delightful piece of decoration, packed with layers of meaning and things to write about, as I feed myself for the next stage of my own existence. Do you gift yourself with an occasional ‘butterfly day’?

Map of Awareness

 

In a recent blog, I used the phrase map of awareness, and its been circling around inside my head ever since. I’m not aware of having ever used the phrase before, so it intrigues me that it sort of just slipped out and was so appropriate for what I was discussing. I even made an actual note of it in a notebook I keep near at hand to jot down just such phrases, ideas, questions that need further investigation, and tidbits I might want to use at a later time.

That little notebook could easily be seen as a type of map of awareness. Not sure anyone else could follow that map and arrive at any distinct destination, because what is there, are just notes, a few words to remind myself of things that have caught my interest, if even only for a moment. They are mile markers made exclusively for myself.

I have, most recently, spent some amount of time telling you a big piece of my personal story. That too, is a type of  map of awareness. I used it as an example to underscore and explain my own thoughts about the Wild Things that come to reside within any given individual. One can readily know a lot of things, but that is not the same as being aware of how those things connect one to another. My journal pages are my map toward awareness, the specific points of interest I choose to write on any given day, the ones that seem of importance to me at the moment of writing the page itself. They are, in effect, more extensive notes than those which I keep in that notebook I just mentioned.

My journal pages are filled with emotions about the things I’ve had, or made, contact with in the previous twenty-four hours. They often include colors, smells, detailed images, weather reports, both inside and out, and the way in which I have come to certain conclusions about situations and people. They are a record of the input of my senses as I travel through my life and existence. And yes, some of them are of absolutely no importance to me or anyone else. So why do it at all? Mainly because not all of them have a lack of value in the building of my awareness.

Do you remember the four steps in the learning process (Sept. 7, of this blog)? The second step: We find out what we didn’t know, is that step into awareness, the beginning of that map I am speaking about. Awareness is the first step toward actual knowing and understanding. Without it, we can, and sometimes do, walk through our own lives, without any knowledge of who we are, let alone where we might be going. That, for me, is a very uncomfortable thought.

It immediately reminds me of that first day I came home from the hospital, and found out that nothing would ever be the same. I was changed, and all the rules had been changed about how I belonged inside of that picture called home. Mainly, what I recall is that feeling of deep loss and total disorientation. And those feelings didn’t disappear. On some levels they became a part of my person, affecting the shape and form of my personality that was still developing at the time. A very deep need to know and to understand was born inside of me that day. A Wild Thing, desperate to regain that secure sense and deep desire of knowing that I belonged.

I used the word desperate because it is the only one that fits. I became the little girl with all of the questions. Constantly asking about all things in an attempt to put them in their proper places, and to regain some control.  So, all of that seems pretty natural under the circumstances, doesn’t it? Why would I define it as a Wild Thing? Because I grew up, on the tail end of that generation that expected well behaved children to not question what they were told, but simply accept whatever was handed down to them by the all-knowing adults within their environment.

In a very real sense, my personal need of the moment, became one of the Wild Things inside of me. My questing was often frowned upon, dismissed, even ignored, and on occasion, was actually answered by more telling questions. “Why would you ask such a thing, where did you get such a weird idea, or what would make you ask about such utter nonsense?” I learned through those actions, to still and silence many of the questions I was seeking answers for, inadvertently developing yet another need, that one for reassurance.

I had been through surgery, head surgery. My sense of loss was far deeper because of my own lack of understanding. I had had a hole in my head that was patched up, then sewn permanently into my person. What had escaped through that hole? What had seeped out while the doctors had debated about just what they could do to alleviate the problem I had created on that snow-filled afternoon of play with my younger sister? I had, in essence, become a complete question mark to my own person. That is not a place I would wish on anyone.

Many other issues arose from that first step in my developing awareness. Issues that also became Wild Things kept within the confines of the wilderness of my imagination. And please remember, there is nothing so imaginative, or creative, as a four year old child. Nothing.

That was the beginning of my map of awareness. I have backtracked over it, exploring the mile markers that I left in one form or another, on countless numbers of occasions. And inside of that process, I have been told that I think way too much, get way too deeply involved in introspection, know nothing of value or worth because it is all subjective conjecture, and have been called dumb, scatter-brained, and even a liar, completely out of touch with any form of reality.

Many of those things were no more than careless words, thrown out to stop me from exploring my world on the only terms I had at my disposal. Those terms were a mind, a physical brain that had endured a hell of a wallop, and might prove to be defective at any moment. That might actually prove itself to be nothing more than a Wild Thing, needing to be caged, contained away from polite and acceptable society. Oh, my.

My map of awareness has led me to the Wild Things that inhabit my own inner wilderness. A wilderness I share with every thinking, breathing human being that exists on the face of the earth. That wilderness may be as different, as diverse, as the number of those individuals. But, I doubt that, because I am aware of meeting similar Wild Things throughout my journey. Each of them has a story to tell, and they do, expressing it in whatever manner they have developed within that wilderness we share called imagination.

Synchronicity

In my last two blogs, I have written about anger and pain, and the advantages of using a daily writing habit to seek solutions and healing for what happens to all of us in the course of living our lives. It is certainly far cheaper than counseling sessions, also more personal and private. Today, I am going to speak of another important advantage in that regular writing: synchronicity.

Synchronicity is when two or more diverse things, moments, flow together, and blend to create a deeper moment of understanding, or enlightenment, for the individual who experiences them. It is also the deepest and richest reward of a regular writing regimen or journal. We all have those moments when we find ourselves saying, “Ah, hah. So that’s the way it works.” That’s what synchronicity is, and a course of ongoing daily writing is a catalyst to such experiences, actually bringing them about on a more regular basis.

We all engage in thought process. Constantly and continuously aware of the thoughts that flow through our minds like a never ending film unreeling from an inexhaustible spool. For the most part, the thoughts are there for less than a second and then move on to make room for the next, and the next, and the next one. And again, for many of us, those ongoing thoughts get lost in that constant movement. We are just too busy to make space for them to take root and develop past that first, and sometimes, only flash of unreeling. They include commentary, emotional response, and reaction to what is happening around and inside of us. And synchronicity happens when some of those thoughts collide and present a new perspective.

The problem is that there are way too many of them. They become extremely easy to dismiss, can even be an annoyance or hindrance to what we would rather be doing or have planned to do. They can and do change the color of our environment, altering our response in the moment, whether negatively or in a more positive vein. All of that, in the blink of an eye, and often without comprehension or understanding. Our minds, our hearts, and our souls, are speaking to us, but that doesn’t mean we are actually, actively listening.

That is where the writing comes into play. When we deliberately sit down and write, we are slowing down that unreeling spool. Letting it speak to us in imagery, words, ideas, and emotional content. We are finally listening to our own inner voices, and don’t be surprised, we do all have them. But because the movie keeps moving, we can’t differentiate between the nonsense and the necessary. Some of it is absolutely necessary to our own well being and continued health and growth. And yes, other parts are absolute nonsense, and might have value as humorous party chat. How much value is there in knowing the difference?

In slowing it down, even for fifteen minutes a day, we are giving ourselves a signal that we are ready to pay attention. And it is incredibly amazing how swiftly those inner voices respond to that invitation, sometimes speaking far faster than we can write. We are taking notes, making that senseless constant thread comprehensible. In doing so, we are also allowing ourselves to make note in facilitating our memory about all of it. Because we now have the notes, we are far more inclined to see some of those ideas, thoughts, images, etc. come together and blend into newer, more advanced ideas and thoughts that can be put into play in changing ourselves, our lives, and our environment.

On some level, this can all appear as some form of magic. It isn’t, but it can certainly feel that way. It is synchronicity and you allow it by simply choosing to take a few minutes to write. I find that taking those solitary moments, puts me more deeply in touch, not only with myself, but with everyone I meet and the world around me. That constant flow of thought, has become my own secret source of ongoing synchronicity. It is a flow that allows me to know that I am in the right place, doing the right thing, for me and those around me. It allows me to embrace my own existence on ever deepening levels of awareness. That’s not a bad outcome for a few minutes of solitary occupation each day.

In the sixties, synchronicity was called serendipity. I like the sound of that word, but to me, it seems to express something that is happenstance, only occasional, a sort of slippery coincidence that maybe shouldn’t have even happened, or happened only because of some secret magical force that only occurs at its own peculiar choosing. On the other hand, synchronicity, seems to put a solid foot down and say this is real, its happening for a purpose and it might be best to pay attention or miss out on the experience. I much prefer staying in contact with all of my experience and learning from it as much as possible.

For a more lengthy discussion on the subject, I would suggest a reading of Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way. It too concerns itself with a regular daily writing regimen that really works on all sorts of levels. I know that because I read it through several times and even facilitated groups in its endeavor to enhance ones own creativity. Synchronicity certainly plays a major role in that activity.

My suggestion, for today, is that you write about one synchronistic moment you have experienced, a moment when you said an inner “ah, hah”, a moment of personal enlightenment. How did it come about? What were the diverse elements that made up its content? How did you feel when it happened?

Anger As Energy Flow

        I have done my part, and whatever happens, will simply happen. But it will only happen at my choosing. That knowledge alone, is worth the few tears I shed.  ___quoted from last post

After years of words that were not understood, or worse, misunderstood, I have learned to choose my words carefully. That sentence:  But it will only happen at my choosing, was written deliberately and with thought. For many years, I held my anger deep inside because it was inappropriate, unseemly, foolish, or just plain wrong. Or so I had been taught. And in turn, I thought I was all those things because I felt them. It took me years to fully understand that feelings are feelings, a barometer to let me know what the temperature is in my environment at any given moment. A simple gage, that allows me to access the information I need to be able to choose how I want to respond inside of that situation. Obviously, as a child, I jumped to the conclusion that if anger spoken was wrong, bad, or not okay, then silence would be the only way to deal with it.

Although a childish, therefore only partial solution, it still remains one of my choices. A good one in the appropriate situation, even as an adult. Let me explain. Anger is an energy flow provided by the system to allow for action. It is not bad, good, and hardly indifferent. It is simply the energy we need to either stand and fight, or to flee and save further action for another day. As an energy flow, it can be either destructive or constructive, used to end the threat that caused it, or build, create something new in its stead. And that is where the matter of choice comes forward. I can either choose to scream as insanely as the idiot who is pissing me off, or I can walk away and conserve the energy for something more creative in the future. Why waste the energy, especially at my age, when it comes as a priceless commodity? Ahhhh, the things I have learned by keeping a journal.

Pain is a threat to the system. As such it produces anger, the energy flow to combat the threat in whatever manner we choose. In my last blog, I wrote about a deep wound that I had uncovered, and allowed myself to revisit on the page, and in private. I even stated that I was consciously aware that it was only a first step in the process I have been learning by writing regularly. I woke up yesterday morning with a depth of anger that might easily match that of Mt. Vesuvius on her best days. Acting on it, was out of the question. It meant that I might very well explode at everyone and everything that crossed my path. Although satisfying in the moment perhaps, releasing the steam, could do damage to me and to others as well.

I acknowledged the anger, but then went on with the day I had already planned that centered around several different creative outlets. I didn’t bury it, simply put it on a shelf where I could easily see and even use it for other purposes. And I did just that. I changed the look of this blog space to one of my original design. Not the one I ultimately want here, because that one will take more time and effort, but an inter-um image that tells me this is now my space. I chatted with a friend, and even took a nap. I read some things in a very good book, which has a great deal of information (synchronistically speaking) about the hard work that must take place after uncovering buried memories and the very real emotional storm they produce.

Before I went to bed, I had a telephone conversation with a friend. At the end of the conversation I told her I needed to go write a poem that was waiting for me to find it. She laughed and said two words that became the poem I wrote in the following half hour. It is one of the better pieces I have written in a long time. And it includes some of the images and feelings from that original unspeakable pain. It is actually a love poem, addressed to someone very important to me. For me, it was the best use of that anger energy I had encountered that morning. Not destructive, or explosive, but contained, controlled, and ultimately, far more satisfying than any other choice I could or would have made.

There was a time when I would have written down those angry feelings in graphic detail. That does work. However, I knew intuitively, also based in past experience, that that can backfire as well. Sometimes the writing is like poking at the anger, watching it to see what happens, releasing some of its fumes into the air I breathe. Other times it can be an incredibly soothing release and answer for pent up emotions that have no other place to live and would become destructive if left inside. That again, is a matter of choice to be engaged in by the individual in individual circumstances, learned through experience, and the growing of discernment. Sorry, it all takes time.

What do you do with your anger? Let it possess you, corrode you from the inside out? Do you confront it and how? By letting it drip from your lips, or explode like uncontrollable and flammable chemicals that are corrosive to your own and others’ environments? Do you struggle with it, like I have done, or throw up your hands in defeat and let it fly wherever, or bury it in the hopes that it might not hurt anyone, but especially you? These are just questions you might want to investigate on paper with pen. Until next time…