Friday, August 7, 2009

Number One

So the decision has been made. Not a list, as I’d thought, but an un-list, so to speak. It’s my birthday soon, another opportunity to make a fresh start. To re-evaluate my last re-evaluation. And the decision was so simple, so clear, I’m embarrassed that it took a bestseller to lead me to make it. (A bestseller I read quickly, easily (part of the attraction) and half-concentratingly, and somewhat begrudgingly and judgmentally but there it sits – simply still what it is, what it was before I ever got a hold of it and, incidentally, I was drawn to read it because I watched what she had to say about muses and liked what she had to say about muses.)

So the answer.

Meditation. Quit asking the questions for a while. Shut my brain up for a while. At least twenty minutes a day, in whatever form that takes. Cross-legged and proper-like, on the floor of my tidied up living room or walking the alleys with the dog, taking a break now and then from quieting my mind to command the dog to “drop it” (then quieting my fear of what “it” might be.)Or even in the cube. Or in the car. Or in the moments between the other, more busy moments.

So it wasn’t a list at all. Unless the list was simply one number one. Silence. Because it sounds so dang delicious.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Catch and Release

I step up to write and I think Ground it in action. I still don’t know what this blog is and that stops me, so many times, from writing anything. And then when I do write it’s the thoughts, all the thoughts, the belly button staring and the hand wringing and I wonder Who wants to read all that?

And I’m not sure of the answer. Not even sure whether the question is relevant. Shouldn’t it be What do I want to say? Shouldn’t that be the question?

I’ve been thinking a lot about art, which I always do, and looking at people I admire, mostly online. They don’t ask, they do. They don’t ponder they move. But then again, there is a place in the world for ponderers. Contemplate. Ruminate. Meditate. Masticate.

What is making art? What is writing, sewing, painting, potting? Is it an expression or a gift? Is it for yourself or for someone else. I know, I know the answer…it’s both. But how can you entertain two intentions at the same time? How can you think I write this for myself and I give it to the world -- without being attached to how the world will treat it? With whether or not it has, you know, real meaning.

All I know is that I feel better when I do….when I complete and release. And the other thing I know is that I always fight the release. Which leads me to think Release. Which leads me to post these thoughts. Whatever they mean.