Photo by Jennifer Teichman
I don’t know what possessed me. At the end of this past summer, I agreed to teach five college writing courses on three different campuses for the fall semester. Five writing courses. One of the more interesting periods of my life, it can only be described as somewhat equivalent to trying to juggle while riding a unicycle on a tightrope over a pit of flames. There have been moments where, trying to keep track of what assignments I had graded for what student for what class (oh and what was I supposed to be lecturing on today?), my brain peered over the edge and into the abyss of insanity.
Thankfully, it was also this fall that I discovered a small wonder in my corner of the world: Weetamoo Woods and Pardon Gray Preserve, a wildlife sanctuary near my home that soon became my own sanctuary. It also taught me something about creativity and my work as a songwriter and poet.
When I get really busy, as I have been this fall with all my classes, my creativity seems to largely evaporate. No inspiration, no insights, no words, no melodies. Or at least very few. As is often the case, I am not able to make a living off my artistic endeavors, and so the bills must get paid some other way, which means time and energy invested elsewhere. And I’m not complaining about my job. I am grateful to be doing something I enjoy that relates to my interests in writing, especially in this economy. Still, time spent grading papers and teaching college students how to research or write an analysis essay is time not spent crafting notes or piecing together new metaphors, much less being able to think about them. Such is the life of the artist who is not able to make art for a living.
For the most part, I assumed this silence of my soul was the busyness of my schedule, and that my brain was simply being overwhelmed with work information. But when I escaped into the woods, I realized there was something more going on. When I was on my walks, I could actually feel the quiet rhythm of the forest, and it began to settle down my busy mind. I could notice details like birch leaves glowing with the suffusion of sunshine, the ripples in the flowing brook, the small footpath tracing its way through a green, misty meadow. I could feel the softness of moss sheathing piles of jagged rock into green velvet. I could hear the eternal babble of little streams or the chatter of birds reflecting off the trees. I could be still, and being still I could see, not just look at. Artist and author Frederick Franck points out the difference between the two when he says:
We have become addicted to merely looking at things and beings. The more we regress from seeing to looking at the world—through the ever-more-perfected machinery of viewfinders, TV tubes, VCRs, microscopes, stereoscopes—the less we see, the more numbed we become to the joy and the pain of being alive, and the further estranged we become from ourselves and all others. [1]
It was then I realized that the creative perception that one finds through stillness comes about one of two ways: it can sometimes just happen by accident, or you can choose it. I had only subliminally been choosing it by virtue of my escapes into nature, probably because deep down somewhere my soul knew that it needed the rest, the recovery.
To be a good artist, stillness is something that we should choose and practice. We simply cannot wait for it to happen. Seek it out. It’s a vocational requirement. We must find it, for only then will we understand. In her book Walking On Water, Madeleine L’Engle wonderfully encapsulates, “When I am constantly running there is no time for being. When there is no time for being there is no time for listening. I will never understand the silent dying of the green pie-apple tree if I do not slow down and listen to what the Spirit is telling me, telling me of the death of trees, the death of planets, of people, and what all these deaths mean in the light of love of the Creator who brought them all into being; who brought me into being; and you.”
Consider a few ideas. Create spaces for stillness. For me, this was retreating to the woods. For you, it may be a quiet space in your home or apartment, or a bench in the park. Then actually spend time there, regularly. Reduce distractions. Instead of going out with smart phone in hand and iPod in ears, ditch the iPod and put the phone on vibrate in your pocket. Keep your senses open.
Do some people watching, or squirrel watching, and see life happening around you. As Dennis Dunleavy observes, “The art of observation begins with immersing ourselves in the textures and tones of life.” [2] You can’t immerse yourself in anything while skittering along the surface of it.
In these times, give your mind time to wander, rather than spinning like a frantic hamster in a wheel over everything you have to do, or what’s happening in your social media world. Daydreaming isn’t just for children;it’s an artist’s most powerful tool because it is the place of possibility. I think some of these ideas are a good place to start.
We need this now more than ever in a world spinning madly on. This is why we need artists, and particularly artists who practice stillness. For in the silence, they will begin to catch glimpses of the meaning behind the motion, which they will then speak, and write, and paint, and sculpt. The artist is one who must stand at the still point of a turning world and simply watch, and in watching, see.
[1] http://www.theawakenedeye.com/seeing_drawing.htm[2] “Mastering the Art of Observation” http://rising.blackstar.com/mastering–the–art–of–observation.html
