How is it I so easily forget the necessity of breaks? Somewhere I got the idea that writing must be work, that I’m a story machine, turning out ideas that cross the production line of my mind. In truth I write and live best when nourished through rest, healthy food, dirt, a little red wine or in this case a latte. I forget the importance of what writer Brenda Ueland called ‘moodling’ –having intentional spaciousness in the day to wander and wonder. I had previously called this lazy and at times still do.Recently I drug myself to a neighboring town as I promised I would, not the dragging part but the going, going to a local greenhouse followed by having a latte, part of my moodling and replenishing process. When I’m in production line mentality, I neglect my reservoir then suddenly find myself empty and needing days to recover and refill.
I was experiencing what my friend Maryann calls ‘fussy.’ She had just the day prior told me that when one’s fussy you either accept it or get more fussy. I should have known by virtue of her telling me this that I was being tipped off as to what lay ahead.
The day started with my sleeping an hour later than intended. I wasn’t really sleeping. I had thoughts, fully formed sentences circling my mind that I was too lazy to record, although the recorder was by my hand. When I did get up, I was angry. My anger hid fear, the fear I had missed a masterpiece offering itself up from the creative ethers.
The cable guy then showed up, early instead of late and left, job done, in record time. Instead of beginning my morning rituals, something felt off in my brain. I blamed this on forgetting my B vitamins the night prior. Unlike Ms. Ueland’s moodling which involves an open, receptive mind, I fussed and felt fuzzy trying to force a story to gel that in truth was and is still in the ingredients gathering stage in the kitchen of my mind.
The above cocktail left me disconnected. Disconnection I resist. The more I resisted owning the present, the greater my disconnect became. My inner fuss mounted knowing I was contributing to the quantum sense of disconnection and unawareness in the world. I can’t complain about people not getting ‘it’ whatever it is when I don’t get it, when I refuse to be just because my be-ing feels uncomfortable and out of my control.
I forced myself into the car with the first goal of going to the bank. If this proved successful, I might venture further. I drove and recalled a friend who said recently that anytime she was home more than three days she got weird. I was 2 and ½ days into alone and aware this might be my version of her weird.
Fuzzy and fussy, I made it to the bank to find a local artisan’s wood carvings on display in the lobby. Mushrooms, sunflowers and an eagle carved with a chainsaw then sanded revealed beautiful patterns inherent in the wood. I left the bank and called the artist to learn his work is made from trees he finds already down in the woods or along the roadside. Awareness of beauty helped shift my fuzz and my fuss.
An hour later I sat having a hard time drinking my latte because it was so beautiful. It was a work of art. I don’t know about you but it wasn’t until late in life that I realized the value of beauty and I’m not talking hairstyles or manicures though I’m not against those things.
I’m referring about the beauty of seeing a fern bursting from a seed in the froth of my coffee, the beauty of continuing to look and seeing angel wings. I’m referring to the angels around u
s with beautiful spirits, like the young woman, a stranger (I suspect a kindred spirit) who offered me a sample sip of her Italian soda as I was debated what to order or Jay and Phil at the nursery who share growing tips that often apply to plants as well as people. I’m referring to the beauty of dirt under my fingernails, a bluebird, potato blossoms, the earthy smell of life in a greenhouse and lines of light in a begonia leaf similar to the lines in the wooden sculptures at the bank.
s with beautiful spirits, like the young woman, a stranger (I suspect a kindred spirit) who offered me a sample sip of her Italian soda as I was debated what to order or Jay and Phil at the nursery who share growing tips that often apply to plants as well as people. I’m referring to the beauty of dirt under my fingernails, a bluebird, potato blossoms, the earthy smell of life in a greenhouse and lines of light in a begonia leaf similar to the lines in the wooden sculptures at the bank. Life is a wo
rk of art and in this case my canvas was a latte. I continued looking at the frothy photo upon returning home and in doing so saw a wave, the oil geyser at the ocean’s floor and a gull. I recalled my earlier thought of the production line in my mind. Production lines like the one in the garment factory in which my grandmother worked or even the production lines in today’s fast food chains allow us to turn out a lot of stuff, the same, repetitive, at times useful, but often uncreative, unimaginative stuff. This isn’t inherently bad but it carries risk. As forcing myself to machine-like turn out stories without filling my reservoir lends itself to an internal dryness and disconnect, production line lives without awareness can narrow our vision, dull the imagination and diminish the capacity to see the beauty and possibilities around us.
rk of art and in this case my canvas was a latte. I continued looking at the frothy photo upon returning home and in doing so saw a wave, the oil geyser at the ocean’s floor and a gull. I recalled my earlier thought of the production line in my mind. Production lines like the one in the garment factory in which my grandmother worked or even the production lines in today’s fast food chains allow us to turn out a lot of stuff, the same, repetitive, at times useful, but often uncreative, unimaginative stuff. This isn’t inherently bad but it carries risk. As forcing myself to machine-like turn out stories without filling my reservoir lends itself to an internal dryness and disconnect, production line lives without awareness can narrow our vision, dull the imagination and diminish the capacity to see the beauty and possibilities around us. Oil was once a new story, filled with possibility that allowed us amazing, imaginative achievements. I honor the minds birthing those achievements. It is time to imagine and give wings to a new story, to ride a new wave that incorporates beauty and creativity in our lives so we reconnect with Mother Earth, ourselves and one another rather than live disconnected lives within and without.
We live richest and deepest when nourished by beauty, wonder, imagination and creativity. Let's use these times to restore these ingredients to the kitchens of our personal and collective hearts and minds.
Imagine that Shift! Dawn, 4 June 2010
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