Bashful Creation

it's embarrassing to lay your soul bare
flowery language spilling out of fingertips
onto a painfully white page
afraid of being perceived
as stroking my own ego
or propping myself up
as something special
there is nothing unique or profound
in the experiences I paint
somewhere along the line
I got the idea in my mind
that producing anything
is the same as proclaiming
it's worthwhile for the rest of the world
to contemplate and consume
an arrogant arm extending outwards
with crumpled poems
clenched in a fist
but my words were never meant
for anyone but myself
publish them or pull them into pieces
to scatter in the breeze
it's all the same to me
the pleasure is in the act of creation
plucking dusty strings deep inside
to see what sound comes out
it doesn't matter if anyone else hears
I don't expect an applause
I don't need anyone else
to understand

Stream of Consciousness

a pouring out of words
to ease internal pressure
a tap placed on the heart
to allow thick emotion
to ooze out

catharsis in 26 characters
carving out space
by cataloguing thoughts
stacked up inside
a crowded, cluttered mind

creating a cadence
to carry us toward
new perspectives
crafting a story
to soothe our fears

writing it all down
is the greatest release
a remedy for rumination
pen on paper is what
the doctor prescribed

opening the floodgates
in an attempt to level out
a soul soaked in doubt
searching for the shore
spared from sinking at last

finding that flow state
is like rinsing out a wound
dislodging debris
to drift swiftly downstream
finally healing can begin

Connected

Why do I see this body
as the limits of my container
the pieces of matter that comprise me
continue on into the cosmos

even the air between you and I 
is saturated with shifting energy
carrying currents of information
through supposed emptiness

connection is everywhere I look
from the veins and tissues of this body
to the veins of mycelium and root systems underground
to the streams and rivers snaking across the earth

the illusion of separation is still poignant somehow
despite the new science that shows we are one
could I learn to feel beyond this form?
can I lift the veil of this life?

to recognize myself in all that I see
is to relinquish this unruly fear of reality
freedom is remembering a fate intertwined
uncovering a deep compassion for all of existence

To love myself is to love the world
to love the world is to love myself
we are inextricably intertwined
we are one in the same

What I Want

I want chaotic devotion
an unhinged hellfire of passion
vibrating thread-thin heartstrings
creating a buzzing harmony 
of mutual happiness
a flurry of fearful excitement
rapid ragged breaths 
between whispered confessions 
of love and longing
the overflowing feeling of unbearable emotion
something that can't be named or tamed or taught
only found, only felt
an undercurrent of sugary sharpness
carving through heaving chests
ribcages torn open 
revealing true beauty, blood red   
is this a chemical reaction
or something that can be crafted
perhaps a perfect storm of coincidence creates it
it's hard to ask for what can't be explained
harder still when to ask is the last nail in the casket
I don't want to ask, I want to not have to
communication comes easy when I am handed a heart stripped bear
reciprocation is my realm, not initiation
my heart gives back what it is given tenfold
but shrivels, hardens, and grows colder 
when confronted with hopes turned hollow
I'm embittered by the idea
of creating everything myself
a childish hatred so sour it stings and contorts
spoiling all the seeds of love inside of me
I want to be bold and brave and tear forth all that may be hidden
I want to know and be known deeply
fear burns the hand that reaches out from within
anger, hatred, and frustration quickly cauterize
the dripping wound of the unfulfilled heart  
Death Leaves A Heartache No One Can Heal, Love Leaves A Memory No One Can  Steal - Her View From Home

Hot Knives

Great art comes from deep sadness
the slithering sickness of sorrow
pressed underneath paper-white skin
squirming, uncomfortable energy 
desperate to be expelled

Violent vomiting of mixed memories
touching brush to canvas,
fingers pressing into cool keys,
bleeding ink that stains blank sheets,
everything becomes an outlet 

A pressure valve to release the pain
inspiration to spark healing
something rising from the ashes of
an empty home
a shattered heart

A true artist hurts in happiness
finding a limp hand
a passion lost 
the prickling pressure of impatience
as time slowly drips 

Icky, slick sensation of 
inner walls made of oil
dark and cool without a flame
to ignite the stillness
sending sparks of art flying

Life's soft moments may be
more lovely than a set of prints
or the penetrating pages of a profound text
but there is still a certain pleasure
in the cutting motion of the all consuming 
chaos that came before
9,575 BEST Blank Canvas Museum IMAGES, STOCK PHOTOS & VECTORS | Adobe Stock

A Poem

An understanding that cannot be uttered
a sliver of light that shines through
the black gossamer ribbon
of muddled memories and misgiving
that dangle limply from the rafters of ribcages

Fearing the failure of unfounded feelings
that gather and disperse indiscriminately
searching for some guarantee 
or at least a stronger container to prevent
the restless flapping of tattered wings

A whimsical collection of winding words
that fall worthless to the bleached wood
of the dusted, decaying floorboards
amongst fumbling feet
frantic to compile them once again

Don't be afraid of the things unspoken
the truth cannot remain hidden much longer
combustion and chaos will surely ensue
all in good time
be patient

Equanimity

Finding the fortitude
to simply surrender
Nodding in acknowledgement 
toward all that's disconcerting
Breathing into the tight spaces
of not only our bodies
but of our minds as well

Saving space for the unknown
bowing down to the bigger picture
that we cannot yet see
humbly accepting
a limited perspective
of this life

Noting our indignation
as it arises in opposition to adversity
and asking ourselves:
What is this?
Do I really know what's best?
Can I release my opinions 
and embrace what is?

Learning that our white knuckled grip
is doing us no favors 
practicing unclenching our grasp
on the way things "should" be
the way others should act
should think
should be

Having the humility to say:
I don't know
Having enough trust to say:
And that's okay
Cultivating curiosity
in place of judgement 
Letting go
Meditation | El arte de la meditación, Diseño gráfico ilustración, Diseño  de ilustración

Scheduling Creativity

Don’t wait to be compelled to do great work.

Richie Norton

I’ve always been a creative person. As children, my sister and I spent hours drawing every day. I honestly probably have my parents’ relative poverty to thank for that. When you come from a family that doesn’t have the money to take you places and buy you new toys all the time, you learn how to entertain yourself with creativity. Not only did we draw constantly, we even made little clay figures, modeling them after Pokémon, or what have you, that we couldn’t afford. It’s funny how the things you once felt cheated by in life become the things you are most grateful for and vice versa.

Anyway, for the majority of my life, my creativity was dependent on “inspiration.” Initially, this wasn’t hard to come by. It is easy to feel inspired and excited by simple things when you are a child. However, once I got into high school, that inspiration started to dwindle. This could also have been a result of my increasing anxiety causing me to start overthinking my process. Whatever the cause, I began creating less and less. It didn’t seem worthwhile to make the effort if the outcome wasn’t going to be something amazing. My ideas weren’t good enough, in my opinion. I wasn’t good enough.

Eventually I stumbled upon the fact that many great artists and writers had struggled with the same issue of motivation. It wasn’t that history’s greatest works always spurred from incredible ideas or the energy of inspiration, rather they came from dedication, hard work, and persistence. Many writers swear by having a writing routine where they write a certain amount every day, regardless of if they feel like it or have anything interesting to say. Despite this, I continued to resist this idea for years. Only recently have I begun to see the value in this method.

The hardest part for me, is accepting that you will certainly create more, but each work may not be as incredible as ones that have been passionately inspired. However, with this regular practice, when inspiration does strike, you will be able to use the skills you have been honing to produce the best version of the work you’ve been inspired to create. In addition to that, inspiration will find you more often if you work at it instead of just waiting passively for it to find you.

Since I began writing and drawing every single day a few years ago, it is stunning how much I’ve improved. (I actually don’t know if my writing has really improved, but my drawing definitely has.) Perhaps more important than the higher quality work I am able to produce, is what I have learned along the way. I’ve learned that the outcome, the product, of creativity isn’t what I’m really after. There is a special joy in producing something from within our own minds and seeing it materialize in the world. Writing and drawing and other artistic endeavors are not a means to an end. They are an end in themselves. They are like dancing.

Dancing is certainly a form of art, but unlike other artistic modalities, these is less focus on a “product” and more focus on the experience in the moment, whether or not their is an audience. Capitalism has obscured and cut down the spirit of creativity within each of us. It has taught us that only certain people are “talented.” Only these talented few have any right to spend their time in artistic pursuits. And even then, only if they are intending to market their work in some way and make a profit. Never simply for personal fulfillment or fun.

Regardless of whether or not you consider yourself “creative” or “talented” I believe that artistic expression is an essential, inherent part of being human. I also believe that it is one of the only ways that we are truly free. Don’t allow anyone to take away that freedom. Don’t allow the world to sever the connection to your imagination. I guarantee you that you friends and family would love to see what you are able to create, irrespective of how “good” it may be. Few things make me happier than seeing the drawings that the children I work with make. Some of my favorite art has been made by my best friend who I’m sure wouldn’t consider herself very talented.

Talent is irrelevant. Art is a glimpse into the mind, the soul, of another. There is an inexplicable intimacy to art. That is what makes it beautiful. So please, express yourself freely in whatever way that brings you joy. Share yourself with the world. Make creativity a regular practice. Even if only for yourself. It’s worth it.

17 Ways to Develop Your Creativity

Perspectives on The Age of Innocence

I love to read classic books, especially ones written by female authors. I just recently finished reading The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. This book was, not surprisingly, absolutely heart-wrenching like many other classic novels. It seems like none of the great works of literature ever seem to have a happy ending. Yet somehow that makes them all the more poignant and real. It allows you to empathize and relate to the characters in a powerful, emotional way. When you read a good book, it almost feels like you’re making new friends. Which makes it all the more painful when things don’t turn out as you had hoped for them.

This particular book struck me in a way that a book hasn’t in a long time. I was so moved by this great work of literature that I just had to write about my thoughts. So here is your official spoiler alert for anyone who hasn’t read it. While I found this book simply heart-breaking, I understand that not everyone may see it the same way. I found myself swaying back and forth between a couple different perspectives.

To me, this book was a tragedy. I desperately hoped that somehow, against all odds, Newland Archer and Ellen Olenska would be together in the end. At the same time, I found myself feeling sorry for Archer’s wife, May. She was not the wicked woman some books may have written her as. She was a perfectly lovely, respectable woman that certainly didn’t deserve to be abandoned by Archer as I, nevertheless, hoped would happen. And in the end she isn’t. Although it could be argued that his love alone for another woman was a betrayal. Still, he remains faithful to her and their family until the end of May’s life.

Some may think this book did have a happy ending. Instead of cheating or leaving his wife, Archer did the “right” thing. He stayed. He did what society expected of him. He honored his commitments. But at what cost? He really had no good options. Either he abandoned his family and his wife to pursue passionate love, or he sacrificed that love for the sake of others and to live his life as a sham. In the end he chose the latter, and honestly, I’m not sure if that was the right decision or not. I can’t say what I would have chosen, myself. Perhaps his love for Ellen was only so passionate because it was forbidden and out of reach. Maybe if he had thrown everything away for her he would have found only disappointment and resentment rather than true love.

The most upsetting part of the story for me was that I saw my own life within it. It sounds wretched and narcissistic to say it out loud, but I saw myself as Ellen and my ex boyfriend as Archer. (Perhaps in a desperate attempt to console myself for not being the one he chose in the end.) My ex chose to stay with his new girlfriend, as I see it, primarily because they had an accidental child together. Even though he had expressed to me just how much less compatible they are than he and I were. Luckily for me, I’ve found someone else to love and be with. I’m not sure if Ellen ever did. However, my heart broke for Archer as it does now and then for my ex. What a wasted life. What a sad, phony existence, to have sacrificed such a love. I foresee him as an old man some day, filled with regrets and “what ifs.” Then again, who am I to say. Perhaps we are both better off this way.

The Age of Innocence | Book by Edith Wharton, Colm Toibin | Official  Publisher Page | Simon & Schuster

Flames

enough has never been enough
the empty space inside me
cannot be filled
with food or drugs or dollars

perhaps its not simply space
but an open furnace
with an ever hungrier flame
growing brighter each day

ignorant of this element
I feed it more and more
hoping that eventually
it will be enough

but feeding that fire
makes the heat more intense
hot tongues licking bone 
burning me up inside

without constant kindling
will these flames finally flicker out
or will I be the next thing
to burn 

Photo by Oleg_bf Oleg Borisov on Pexels.com