“I do not understand abstract act. Only art born of love, passion, pain.”
“I do not understand abstract act. Only art born of love, passion, pain.”
“Speak a new language
so that the world
will be a new world.” ~ Rumi
In the past, if I’m honest, she’s taken more than a day or two. Once, she even took off a whole decade. (That’s another story for another day…) But even when my Muse IS on the job, the “fits of genius” come sporadically at best. So much of the time, showing up for my art or my passion project feels like plain old work.
What’s a creative woman to do when her deepest creative self seems to run on fumes … and she really just wants to get back in the FLOW?
Everyone experiences dry spells. It could even be that you are coming back to your creativity after a long dry season, or a busy season serving others, and you wonder if it’s even possible to muster up that mojo again.
I’ve been in both scenarios, and I can say for sure that it IS indeed possible to get that mojo back. But not by trying so so so hard to make it all happen.
Rush your Muse, pressure her, or make demands—and she’ll likely run the other direction. But if you can create a relaxed, fun environment that invites her to come close without forcing it, you might be surprised how fast the ideas spring up again.
So perhaps the best advice I can give you is to …
Yes, I know, woman of action: that might not come easily to you. It seems more valuable to just keep piling on the action, trying to get more done, putting yourself under and even bigger load. But the more you sweat and strive, the less far you’ll actually get.
So put on some music that makes you feel happy.
Take that overdue bubble bath.
Have a glass of wine or herbal tea.
Take a hike or do some serious yoga.
Indulge in the nap you’re craving.
Have dinner with a friend who makes you laugh.
Finger paint with your kids for awhile.
Or maybe … just maybe … pull the covers over your head and try again tomorrow.
Because the more you allow yourself to feel pleasure and joy, the more the ideas will flow.
By releasing the “pressure valve” on your inner need to perform, you will actually create space for your muse to whisper in your ear—and actually be heard.
All of this, though, points to something much deeper than finding the last lyric for that song or the right color for the last stroke of that painting.
Perhaps what your Muse needs more than anything else is simply for you to accept that feeling “blocked” is where you are right now.
This iS what is. And it is okay.
You don’t have to have the idea right now. It can take a little more time to make itself clear.
Because after all, your Muse has a mind of her own. Let her be who she is, and you might be surprised what she gives you in return.
Your creativity may feel AWOL right now. But maybe it’s just around the corner, waiting for you to breathe deeply, loosen your shoulders and dance.
In the middle of the dance, you’ll know what to do.
There were a lot of things no one told me about visiting Reykjavik in December, which I did in 2017. Although in fairness to the everyone implied in “no one,” I never really asked them. I just went
Take the city’s muted tones, for example. The whole urbanscape deserves to be picked up and dropped inside some sort of Art Museum to European Modernity—or at least, that’s how I felt of the washed-out greys, blues and browns that seem to make up the winter Icelandic palette. When you can see it, of course. Many days you’re lucky to get an hour of daylight out of the four or so that are possible at that time of the year.
Sunwashed Tuscany in September, it most definitely was not. However, the city did offer some charms I had not foreseen. Like its amazing plethora of street art. Worthy of a museum on its own, to be sure. Though wouldn’t putting street art in a museum sort of undercut the definition of “street art?”
But I digress
One might be tempted to assume that Reykjavik street art follows the typical patterns as its counterparts in the U.S.—words hastily scrawled on the sides of buildings. Stencils scattered across concrete pavement, and the like. But nothing could be further from the truth.
Take this gorgeous Van Gogh-esque home facade, for example. Who could possibly mind coming home every day to this cheerful exterior? Even if it means living in a city where the average December temperature is 3 degrees Celsius, and 10 AM is liable to be as pitch-black this time of year as 10 PM?
Every where I looked, there was something whimsical to see.
Dragons, for example. There be dragons in Reykjavik. Lots of ‘em. Of course serpents and dragons figure prominently into Norse mythology, so I’m sure there’s some connection. But I’m not sure what these dragons represent, specifically.
They could be something like Níðhöggr, the serpent that nibbles at the base of the world-tree, apparently causing parts of it to rot. Or, they could refer to the dragon that Sigurd slayed in the popular Nordic epic. Or one of how many others.
The artist wasn’t really around to ask.
Sometimes, though, Reykjavik dragons like to catch you off guard. … Like, when you come around the corner, least expecting to see them ….
Oh wow, it’s a big one!
Some places have a yellow brick road. And some of them … have a multicolored serpent brick road.
It might feel like Oz here in Reykjavik, but it sure doesn’t look like it.
Somehow, monochromatic winter wonderland of Reykjavik was a match for the “blah” I felt in my soul at that time. I was off on a “big” European adventure with no money to my name. I could barely afford to eat in the city, let alone take in any of the interiors of the museums or other places a tourist might normally visit.
Yet here I was, wandering the streets counting my krona for every cup of hot chocolate, and still I was treated to so much amazing art that it was like having a whole museum at my disposal.
There’s something poetic about that, to be sure.
All in all, I found the street art of Reykjavik a welcome and refreshing break from the winter landscape that offered little in the way of visual pleasure. For brave folks who have survived in this amazing country for so many thousands of winters, this artistic expression must offer a chance for laughter, joy, and beauty.
No matter where we live, do we not seek to make it beautiful? Reykjavik reminded me that no matter what the landscape of our lives, it is possible to create beautiful from what we have on hand.
No excuses. No questions. No hesitation. Even in the “winter” seasons of our lives, even in our own Decembers, we can paint the walls with brilliant color. And all sorts of pictures, straight out of our imaginations.
If the artists of Reykjavik can do it, I can too. So can you.
NOTE: The following is a featured post from 2016 which first appeared on my former creative blog, Scrappy Storyteller. I’m sharing this as a way of embracing my past creative self and sharing ideas she had that, well, still matter today. Enjoy!
Every year I have great plans for February. And every year, they get totally derailed.
Like it or not, for me February seems to be the month when I’m called to hibernate in my own soul, mulling things over. I feel like that bear in a cave, slowly burning off the fat of her last intellectual meal so that when she awakes, she can stretch and crawl out of her cave in search of a good trout and a handful of berries.
The reward for my hibernation, however, is rarely a sense of well-restedness. (I actually slept terribly this month.)
As I explored in my last post, there are apparently phases to this thing called the creative life. The early phases are so exciting! You watch concepts you heard and read about unfold before your very eyes.
But once the excitement and glitter are past, you’ve got a long road of hard work ahead of you.
And as it turns out, that is where our storytelling skills most come in handy.
You see, in the middle of all my intellectual machinations and internal questioning this month, it occurred to me that our storytelling skills really are so much more important than we think. And not just for the creative endeavors we might be pursuing.
They’re critical to the living of this thing called life.
This month it occurred to me—possibly for the first time ever—that the story truly must come first in any endeavor, not just in art but also in life.
Every day, every hour, I’m shaping a narrative inside my own head about how my life is going, whether I’m the hero of a comedy or tragedy, or how close I am to achieving my goals.
The most important story I’ve been telling all of my life isn’t one of my many specific fictional tales. It’s the story I’ve been telling to myself about my life.
I am my own first (captive) audience. I am also perhaps my own most important audience.
And like the reader of a choose-your-own-adventure novel, I will ultimately decide how the story turns out.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting I have ultimate power over my own life, or some kind of omnipotent edge that can merely think away obstacles and fly to the moon. But I am suggesting that I do have the power over how I react to, respond to or view what happens to me.
That internal narrative is just as important—maybe even more so—than any external one I’ll ever write.
As I was lying awake many nights this month, thinking over many things, or letting my mind wander as I doodled in my art journal . . . I realized that the creative life really is not about being in the “right place” with the “right people” or the “right work.”
This is not to say that we should never make changes to our external environment, or pursue new opportunities, or perhaps finally lay that languishing project to rest. But perhaps we’re just too quick to look around us, expecting the change to happen.
We look to the details of the story to change magically on their own, rather than asking the Storyteller to change the plot.
I am the Storyteller. So are you. If we don’t like the story . . . all we have to do is change it.
After all, isn’t that the beauty of a story? It’s not completely random? There IS a Teller out there somewhere, shaping our understand of what’s happening, and helping us to make meaning of the events as they unfold.
In the case of life, we rely on ourselves to make meaning of what’s happening to us. It’s one of the sacred tasks we’ve been given.
So I’ll ask you the question I had to ask myself:
If not, you always have an opportunity to shift the narrative inside your own head, and in doing so, to transform your reality.
That’s what stories are all about, anyway: the power of transformation. The transmuting of a soul from one state of being to another—whether literally in the physical realm or figuratively in the metaphoric one.
(I didn’t tell you we’d be delving into alchemy today, now did I? Well, every good story has got to have a plot twist anyway . . .)
A story starts off in one place and must alway end up in another. If there’s no shift or movement, there has been no story.
So as we enjoy this unusual extra day in February, and prepare for March (already?!), I hope you’ll remember with me that we really, truly are the story that we tell ourselves.
If we don’t like the story we’re living, the problem isn’t usually in the story. It’s all about the telling.
This is why movies go south. Novels flounder. Graphic novels fall flat.
The telling of the story just wasn’t as grand as the original idea.
But the problem is never the story itself.
The narrative we spin inside our own heads, about our own lives, is quite possibly the most important narrative we’ll ever write.
It’s about time we got absolutely clear on who we are, what’s happened to us, and why it matters.
Because when we get our story straight, the rest (of life) will always follow.
“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” – William Wordsworth
“Blossoms are scattered by the wind and the wind cares nothing but the blossoms of the heart no wind can touch.” – Yoshida Kenko
“I consider myself a stained-glass window. And this is how I live my life. Closing no doors and covering no windows; I am the multi-colored glass with light filtering through me, in many different shades. Allowing light to shed and fall into many many hues. My job is not to direct anything, but only to filter into many colors. My answer is destiny and my guide is joy. And there you have me.” ―