The End Is Ever A Beginning

 

I started to fill the last page in my sketchbook yesterday. This one will have words on it as none of the others do. The same words that title this blog. I have two new sketchbooks that should be arriving this afternoon. And I look forward to filling them and being just as surprised as I have been with each new page. Perhaps these new pages will have words on them as well as images, bits of poetry, partial quotes, and other things. I won’t know until I get there and begin.

When I realized that I had gotten to the last page, I knew that I needed to honor that actuality. And I let the sketchbook alone for a couple of days before I decided how to do that. I didn’t know how the words would go on the page, but when I heard them in my head, I knew they were the right ones. Strangely enough, I did that at a small family gathering, held in honor of Labor Day and the end of summer. Also appropriate in my mind.

I only had enough time to print the words when one person, then another, stepped over to see what I was doing. A very interesting conversation followed. How did I get started doing this? Have I now given up writing to pursue this new interest? Where do all the ideas come from? And how someone else would never be able to do that because it took way too much concentration and patience. I never got back to that final page, but have it to look forward to today. Again, very appropriate, in my mind.

The ending of one thing, often means the beginning of something else. But, it doesn’t necessarily have to be so. I have no intention of giving up my writing and it looks as though it will become another step in my pictorial journey. The two will blend and become something more than either was alone. I particularly like that idea. Expansion, rather than a choice to eliminate one or the other.

I also find it absolutely delightful that the idea occurred as I was finishing the first sketchbook and looking forward to the new ones that will be arriving. Haven’t mentioned this yet, but I was surfing the net the other day and hit on an idea for a whole different set of images for one of those new sketchbooks. It would be a series. Similar to what I’ve been doing, but different and distinct. I will have two new sketchbooks and two new roads to travel down while exploring this new place I have entered. Am definitely looking forward to both of them.

If we look at the ending of something as no more than that, all we will experience is the loss. It might be a necessary loss, but it doesn’t have to be only that. There are always lessons to be learned from every experience we encounter. Yes, even the death of a loved one who has been extremely important to our existence.

When I was much younger, I dreaded the knowledge that my father would have to one day pass away and no longer be a part of my landscape. He taught me a great deal about life and I wasn’t sure I could continue if he was not here with his gentle and loving encouragement. He died over twenty years ago, and his passing was a tremendously spiritual experience for me.

Having written about him and our relationship, I know that he continues to encourage and support me, teaching me gently as he always did. And those lessons will stand me in good stead as I face the loss of my other parent, as well as those of others I care deeply about.

Loss always has some amount of pain to accompany it. But pain can be expressed in so many ways and they don’t have to be negative or destructive. Writing through the pain, drawing its contours, giving it shape and meaning can be healing and life affirming. That is a necessary part of our growth process.

I felt sad for the gentleman who told me he could never do what I was doing in my sketchbook. He was determined to close himself off from that experience, even though he asked more, and deeper probing questions about the process than anyone else did. He simply kept shaking his head no, when I explained that mistakes were simply opportunities to go in a new and unexplored direction, mumbling about “how that would never do.”

I was very tempted to tell him of a phrase that someone had told me they had found on a t-shirt recently. One I agreed with and was tickled with enough to find out where I might get the t-shirt. “Yes, I have character flaws and I know how to use them.” But, at that point, he hit the last and final page of my sketchbook that he had been paging through. He looked at the words and said, “The End. That’s appropriate,” and went on to talk of other things.

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.

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?

The Unspeakable

Today, in my journal, I found myself writing about an ‘unspeakable’ pain I have carried around inside of me for almost ten years. Where do you go with something like that? Something so hurtful, that to unleash it, to open ones mouth and put it into words, is to unleash a torrent of pain and hurt that might have no end and therefore, no healing. What choice is there in that situation? To put it into words is to define it and all the tendrils of its reality and the effects that those realities have visited upon your person.

I think most of us, like I have done, just don’t go there. We don’t speak of it, refuse to think about it, lock it in a box, decorative or not, and place it on the highest, darkest shelf of our inner being. We completely silence it and ourselves. But, is that silence really silent? We may believe, because we must, that that funny little box is hermetically sealed, but it isn’t. The human psyche simply doesn’t operate that way. We may all have those moments when we wish that it did, but it doesn’t. Living organisms (anything that breathes) can not abide a vacuum in their midst. It must be opened and filled with more of self.

So, the tendrils escape, seek paths in the darkness and, I believe, seek light and the heat that is life. Places where they can continue to breathe, live, and ultimately grow to fruition. And just what are the fruits of such labor, in those darkened corners of existence? I found at least three of them in a single page this morning: hesitancy based in fear, distrust of someone I care about deeply, and feelings of both abandonment and betrayal. I guess that’s four, but I’m fairly certain that over the course of ten years, there are probably at least a few more.

So why did I even open this can of worms today? Because it was time, and more than that to do so. Each morning, before I write, I go back and read my last morning’s page/s. I had made a strange statement at the end of yesterday’s scratchings. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and sort of just dangled there at the end, like the physical members of a middle-aged male chorus line with beer guts and too much hair where it shouldn’t be and far too little where it should. It really was too highly visible to ignore.

Being who I am (never more apparent than in those morning escapes), I couldn’t move away without comment and once I started, I filled the entire page describing the incident upon which it had been based. And yes, I was definitely crying by the time I was finished. I was alone, no one saw the tears or need ever know they were present. No one knew, or even had to know what, if anything, had occasioned them. No one, but me. I had brought myself to awareness in five or six paragraphs. That isn’t something to sniff at, remember, all of this had been buried deeply for ten years. It certainly needed an airing, maybe even more so, a throwing over a clothes line and a good beating with a wire whisk.

That may all come tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe next month, or heaven forbid, even ten more years from now. These steps in awareness take time, to settle, be digested, and work their way through the system, in order to bring about the healing they are intended to produce. All I know, is that I have taken that first big huge step, and put into words what had been unspeakable. 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.

Yesterday, I wrote here, that a regular writing regimen is the cheapest therapy known to humankind. Then had to face off with my own reality this morning and prove it to myself once again. Don’t you just love it when that happens? I do, because it is the one signal that tells me I am in the right place, doing the right thing. That pleases me, no end. Do you have that? Something that tells you that you are being the best that you can be in any given moment? Something that lets you understand that what you do is essential to further growth and your own personal evolvement? Perhaps a friend that you can invite for coffee and a little venting, a counselor or confessor, a place you can go and scream at the top of your lungs, or hug yourself when no one else is around to offer that?

The only problem with any, or all of those, is that they often can’t be spur of the moment things, immediate to and in the moment. Some of them can be expensive, while others might demand some deliberate preparation and planning. A journal never does. It’s always there, doesn’t get busy talking to another friend and leave you waiting, cooling your heels while the moment and its need disappears into other things, people, or activities. It’s there whenever you need it, want it, or can’t think of another way in which to turn the unspeakable into definitive words, that in turn, allow them to be worked through to resolution. And that is really good therapy.