Wide awake

Creativity as a vehicle for being moved by life

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A song I’ve been enjoying:

Pulled over for awe — Monument Valley, 2018.

I am wide awake. To the tragedy and the budding roses, to the ache of grief and the awe of autumn, to the swirl of wounds that remain open and the limitlessness of joy found in the body of a one year old. I am awake to all of it.

It is so tempting to close my eyes to what hurts — to turn my back to the pain asking to be felt and held. It is so enticing to spend too much money or eat sugar until my stomach hurts or (fill in the blank) as a mode of finding temporary serotonin instead of confronting sadness head on, without needing a buffer between it and me. It is so understandable why we’d rather numb or hide or minimize or deny or pretend or ignore or push down the stuff we wish wasn’t there. Of course. I love us for trying so hard to protect ourselves from what’s hard.

And… what I’ve learned after spending so much time running from pain by way of trying to fix it, or overcome it, or get past it, or move beyond it, is that there is no fixing it. There is no overcoming it. There is no getting past or moving beyond it. Sure, maybe in a moment or in a particular experience. Sure, maybe for a while, in one season or chapter of life. But not permanently. Nothing is permanent, including the momentary erasing or moving away of our pain. To be human is to move through slowing ebbs, downward turns, dark spots and difficulty. To be human is to experience hardship, loss, grief, sadness, and sorrow. No matter what. There is no amount of running from it that actually keeps it at bay.

Learning to befriend and be with what hurts instead of trying to succeed or hustle or prove or pretend my way out of it has given me my life back. And when I forget this is true, there are practices that help me remember.

One of the things that helps me stay wide awake most, even to the bubbling grief in my belly and the stuff I’d rather keep out of my landscape, is creativity — allowing it, trusting it, listening to it, tending to it, caring for it like it is its own living entity within me, asking to be expressed through me. Creative practice has supported me in being more in touch with all parts of me… which, for a long time, meant mostly the hard parts. But over the last many years, it has expanded to include the beautiful, golden, delightful, awe-filled parts, too.

Creativity isn’t kept alive by our pain; it’s kept alive by the mere fact of our aliveness.

I once thought of creativity as a means to an end: as the form through which money can be made, or the expression through which capitalism can be continued, or something that must have a purpose, must be functional, must be useful in some way And of course I thought this. We, in countless ways, have been conditioned to view everything as productivity-based, as individualism-based, as a means to an end. We’ve been taught to strive for more, bigger, better… which makes it so understandable that creativity might be viewed the same way.

When I look back on my life, though, creativity has always been a balm and a caregiver, even when it was just for me, in me. It has always been a mode of releasing what is asking to be let out and welcoming what is asking to be seen. It has always held me when I’ve chosen to hold it as sacred, as important, as necessary, as integral to my humanity. When I’m most depressed, creativity often seems farthest away. It’s a marker of knowing I've sunken and need to bring myself back up to the surface. And when I’m feeling most like myself, it’s usually in moments where creativity is my orientation toward life, toward seeing, toward being.

So many of us think we’re creative because of what we do, or how talented we are at certain practices, or how often we create something tangible, or how much money we make from what we create. And yes — these are indeed acts of creativity and are sometimes part of our creative selves. Yet our inherently creative selves exist beyond the boundaries of outcome or tangibility, of results or finished products, of income or bestseller lists. Creativity is also held in the way we make sense of ourselves and the world — in the way we brainstorm and facilitate our lives — in the way we view a sunrise and experience a meal. Creativity isn’t just about what we make that others might be able to see, or what our practice of creativity makes us. For me, it is so much more about how we choose to engage with the world, with our own aliveness, with death and mundanity and the absurdity of being a human being. It is about accessing our choice to express the way we relate to life in all the ways that bring us closer to ourselves and each other.

A lot of people ask me how I write so much so often. I ask myself that question sometimes, too — mostly because of inherited beliefs around productivity, over-working, and making everything in our lives practical in some way. It’s easy to assume a regular writing practice must be about productivity because isn’t everything? But when I really think about it, I write so much because it ignites my aliveness every single time. It keeps me devoted to creative practice and to my creative self, even when I forget that part of me exists. It allows me to explore and express, make sense of and honor what doesn’t make sense, say what is floating in the river of my brain and what is swimming through my bones.

Writing as a regular creative practice keeps me in touch with my humanity, which is inherently creative. It isn’t a chore. It isn’t a drag. Sometimes I don’t want to do it and don’t know how to write another damn word, but more often than not, my aliveness buzzes when I write. I buzz when I create something from nothing — when I bring form to what once only existed in my own body and mind. Writing is a through-line to my aliveness. It means a lot to me. I am devoted to it.

I also recently started learning pottery and it has, yet again, reminded me that to be creative is really to be in touch with ourselves and the world around us — whether it’s writing or walking, the earth via clay or the practice of curiosity. And we don’t need to be “good” at any of it for it to touch us, impact us, imprint onto us. To tend to our creative selves is to tend to our aliveness, which allows us to exist beyond what hurts.

When I stay rooted to my creative self, the hard stuff doesn’t feel so insurmountable. Possibility becomes an ally. My capacity to make beauty out of nothing is an anchor. Change ignites excitement, rather than only fear. Making things feels like care. When I stay rooted to my creative self, I remember the gold in me, the parts of me that exist beyond what is hard, the wave of wonder that can always be tapped into when I just remember to look for it.

What makes you feel alive? Awake? What supports you in noticing the flecks of gold in this morning’s sunrise? What reminds you of the stars you are made of? Where do you find yourself deeply in touch with the earth, with wild, with nature? Who reminds you of your inherent creativity? What is begging to be expressed, made, shaped? How do your orient toward your own aliveness? What helps you remember?

Your creativity doesn’t need to have anything to show for itself. It doesn’t need to turn into an income or an instagram following. It doesn’t need to be “good” to the traditional standard. It doesn’t need to lead to anything other than a moment of being with your own aliveness, with the aliveness around you. It doesn’t need to prove itself to anyone, even to you. It doesn’t need to be admired or wowed over. It doesn’t need to be expressed in one way, or thought of in one way, or accessed in one way.

Your creativity is for you. It is possibility embodied. It is joy for the sake of it. It is scribbles and screenplays, birdwatching and dancing, saying something and silence. It is endless and expansive. It is able to be accessed at any time, in ways you haven’t even yet discovered. It is inherent to you, part of you, woven into you. It is your through-line to the gifts you carry within. It is an orientation toward life, a way of seeing, a way of moving. It is always there. It is always available. It is yours.

“You can resist the seductions of grandiosity, blame, and shame. You can support other people in their creative efforts, acknowledging the truth that there’s plenty of room for everyone. You can measure your worth by your dedication to your path, not by your successes or failures. You can battle your demons (through therapy, recovery, prayer, or humility) instead of battling your gifts—in part by realizing that your demons were never the ones doing the work, anyhow. You can believe that you are neither a slave to inspiration nor its master, but something far more interesting—its partner—and that the two of you are working together toward something intriguing and worthwhile. You can live a long life, making and doing really cool things the entire time. You might earn a living with your pursuits or you might not, but you can recognize that this is not really the point. And at the end of your days, you can thank creativity for having blessed you with a charmed, interesting, passionate existence.”
Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic

May your creativity be tended to, so it can tend to you.

△ One of my favorite places to read about creativity from so many amazing humans

△ The Sixth Love Language Does Not Exist

△ Letting Life Be, from one of my dearest teachers

△ I love exploring core values as a seasonal practice

△ Scenes from the most special day celebrating with my daughter:

Awe found in some of my most sacred places — Muir Beach & Muir Woods

△ I’m taking a marketing class with Bear Hebert and loving it so much

△ Continuing my adoration of pop music from last week — I lean toward being a pretty emotional, deep person… and pop hits tend to bring me back down to the joy of life, the silliness, the play, the sweetness, the ridiculousness of it all. They remind me to have fun — to not take it all so seriously.

△ The cool mom myth

△ The mundane thrill of romanticizing your life feels very resonant

△ A wealth of resources on creative living

With care,
Lisa