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Following my declaration of claiming creative space in my last post on Sankalpa and My 21:5:800 Experience, I promptly signed up for Connie Hozvicka’s Art Journal Love Letters online workshop. I figured that if I’m truly going to allow myself to create, then I need to take the opportunities to embrace new skills and open up to inspirational experience. Creating love letters to my art journal is just such an opportunity – an invitation to come out and play.
After signing up and logging on, I began learning about materials, supplies, journals etc. but the element that has most captured my imagination at this very early stage is the preparing of the pages. I can honestly say it had never occurred to me that I would need to prepare the journal pages before creating my art, but I find the idea completely intoxicating. I watch video clips of Connie spreading the gel medium across a double page spread – blank, but now with a thin, glistening film covering the entire surface – and find that I am transfixed.
Upon this prepared page, magic happens. Colour bursts from paintbrush bristles. Long meandering lines doodle from one end to another. Texture is formed, bumpy-rough and lumpy-smooth. And in amongst these fireworks of brightest hue and mellow shade, there lies the spirit of an imagination at play.
And yet, before all this, comes the preparation of the page. In times gone by, I would have been impatient to jump straight into the colour, into the texture, into the drama of artistic expression. But something has changed. Something since I began the 21:5:800 challenge. Now, taking the time to do the work that needs to be done to prepare the blank page, seems completely natural and exquisitely fulfilling as an action in and of itself. I see now that the act of preparation is one that can be practiced mindfully – a journey and a destination all rolled into one.
Because the preparatory movements to be applied to the page are akin to those I now practice every day in my yoga practice. I lay down my mat in the middle of the lounge floor, the morning sun flooding the space with fresh summer light. I seat myself down upon the mat, cross-legged, straight-backed, and close my eyes. I draw my attention to my breath. In and out. In and out. Inhale follows exhale follows inhale. The breath my only point of focus, as I turn inwards. I consciously begin to lengthen my breath; breathing deep into my tummy, I feel my chest and abdomen expand, and then exhaling long and low, as the slow rush of air leaves my body.
Over and over again, I breath… consciously, mindfully. In this moment of calm, I set my sankalpa, my intention, and this now becomes my touchstone. On my next breath, I inhale and as I exhale I speak the word that has been spoken for centuries. A word ancient and powerful. A word that resonates deep within my core, before filling the room and travelling out of the open windows and into the world outside. Om. Om. Om.
And now, there are no words. There are no thoughts. There are no fears, reminders, longings, worries, distractions. Instead there is release. The kind of release one only ever finds once they have prepared the blank page of their mind. A double-page spread pristine, sealed and ready for the following stage. The flowing asanas tracing their way through the white space, their lines thinning and thickening, contracting and relaxing, holding and releasing. The breath remaining steady, staying constant.
In preparing the pages of my art journal, readying it for the colour, the texture, the words, I can find a quiet peace. A peace that begins at the tip of the medium laden brush and ends somewhere in the centre of my chest. I never would have guessed this kind of serenity would ever have been available to me. The shift from rush-rush-rush to be-here-now has been profound, all-encompassing. A tide of calm placidity spreads out over my mind and body, and I am prepared.
Prepared to move. Prepared to create. Prepared to set sail upon the seas of my imagination, with the winds of liberation speeding my progress. Never before have I felt such deep-seated assurance in my ability to build upon the blank surface, to make my mark, to inscribe the secrets that the soul whispered into the deepening blue of a dusk fast approaching. And I thought I’d feel giddy. I thought I’d feel nervous, filled with anticipatory flutterings.
But instead, I feel something so much better. So much more satisfying. What I feel is sustainable. My usual energy pattern of pyrotechnic explosion, followed by an exhausted shower of vanishing sparkles, appears arrested. Replaced by a creative sovreignty that carries with it longevity, a sense of jubilant productivity that flows from an eternal spring: glittering, pure, constant.
I fill my brush with the medium and apply it in the act of preparing the page.
Sankalpa. The intention I wish to bring to my practice. The quality I wish to bring to my day. The focus I wish to bring to my journey.
When I first caught sight of the 21:5:800 challenge, I knew it was for me. I’ve been looking to develop a yoga practice for such a long time, but with being a busy home-educating mum of 3, perhaps unsurprisingly, I never found the time. This was my opportunity to give it a go, to see if it was going to provide the sustenance my body and soul were crying out for. It has more than exceeded my expectations.
As for the writing, I knew that I wanted to push myself on this front. I knew that I was going to have to create some kind of routine, accompanied with accountability, in order to make the progress that I knew was available to me. I think deep down I have always wanted to be a writer, and over this last month it’s become profoundly clear to me that I need to pursue this. I need to give my words a chance to blossom on the page.
Through turning up to the mat day in, day out, and to the laptop day in, day out, I’ve discovered that I can articulate what it is that I’ve been searching for all these years. A creative playground. A room of one’s own. A space to explore, inspire, evolve, create, play, produce. The funny thing is, is that it was right in front of me the whole time. I only needed to give myself the permission to own it.
I’ve given that permission now, because I’m tired. I’m tired of apologizing for my art. I’m tired of belittling my gifts. I’m tired of living small. I’m tired of not allowing my light to shine.
I’m telling you all this because I think it’s something that a lot of creative souls feel – that sense that your art isn’t really art, it’s only a hobby, really, and you’re sure that no-one would really be interested in experiencing it, let alone paying for the pleasure. It’s crippling, isn’t it? This belief that our creative self is trapped somewhere within our heart of hearts, and that if we could only find the key, find it and turn it in the lock, our creative self could step forward. Step forward and claim the space.
I imagine my creative self in a red dress. A beautiful long red dress that sashays as she walks. She’s still me, but a more radiant, luminous version. A glow emanates from her skin, and her eyes twinkle with a sense of mischief. However, mischief is not all that resides within that gaze; a deep conviction of her right to create, to produce, to birth rests there too.
This self sets aside any notion that she ‘can’t be a writer’, ‘isn’t good enough to be an author’, ‘can’t live up to expectations’. This self laughs at the idea that she isn’t intrinsically creative – a life-giving force that sends words skipping across the void. She also holds no truck with naysayers who try to downplay her talents, try to limit her with their perceptions, shame her with their ideas of acceptability.
I’m thinking this self has way more fun than the self that I most often portray. The one who refuses to live up to her potential. Who would rather talk about what she would like to do, and who she’d like to be, than actually risk the doing and the being. I don’t want to get to the end of my life thinking that I could have been so much more if I had only embraced that creative self, worn the red dress, and just got on with living the life I was born to live.
So, sankalpa: an intention, a resolution. A setting of one’s heart upon a quality that resonates within and shines through every pore. Throughout this challenge I’ve experimented with many intentions. I wanted to swim in their waters… the sea of joy, the lake of gentleness, the river of flow, the fountain of now. The one that resonated the most was the stream of namaste. The light in me sees the light in you.
For me this is a quality of gratitude, clarity, openness, grace… and a sense that I can see, really see, the divine spark fanned to a flame within myself and within others. As I go forward into the next 10 day extension of 21:5:800, I’m going to experiment with holding onto this sankalpa throughout my yoga practice, my writing practice, my living practice. I want to see how it feels and I want to see how it affects my creativity. That creative self is on the verge of coming out to play.
Namaste.
Yoga
Today I made a small alteration to my practice, but it made a huge difference; I moved to music. I discovered some old relaxation cds that I had never listened to, and decided to give ‘Serenity’. The effect was really incredible. I found it easier to hold positions for longer. I found it easier to control my breath. I found it easier to move from one pose to another. And I found it easier to focus on the practice, rather than all the other things that creep into my mind when I’m striving to release my thoughts.
The other thing that I think is making a difference for me is reading about yogic philosophy. I’m finding it absolutely fascinating, and I can see that it is also affecting my writing practice…
Writing
Today was the day for creating my full moon dreamboard, which you can see on my Posterous. As is always the case, the board did not turn out the way I expected. There’s a lot of movement there, a lot of energy and a lot about performance of one kind or another. I’ve also included the quote which precedes my 800 words today. I’ve chosen to use the quote and my dreamboard as my prompt for today…
When you step onto the stage of lila, you have a choice. You can drag yourself across the stage like you have been mixing Quaaludes with alcohol, or you can step into the universal spotlight like a great diva. The stage is set; the roles have been cast. In experiencing the passion of lila, the first step is to take command of the stage that is your life and develop a stage presence that embraces the fullness and complexity of your role on the stage of maya. ~ Darren Main
I read these words yesterday and they struck home. Like an arrow that has found its mark, these words penetrated my heart and reverberated around the house of my soul. It was one of those moments where you sense that you have been seen. Truly seen. Now, these words follow me from room to room. They are tracing my footsteps, tugging at my shadow, mirroring the rise and fall of my breath. And I find myself wondering in those moments where my movements are occupied with preparing the dinner, making the beds, retrieving the mail, “What would it be like to command the stage that is my life? To step out into the universal spotlight? To develop a stage presence of a great diva?”
It would require you to step out from behind the mask that you’ve so carefully constructed. Step out and step forward, unadorned by the trappings of doubt, the trimmings of terror. What will they say? What will they think? This familiar refrain repeats and repeats and repeats, almost as if it longs to drown out the embryonic retort that whispers: Who cares? Who really cares if you deign to be you? Who really cares if you peel off all those old costumes, the clothes of a character you were never born to be? Who cares if you enter stage left, the spotlight tracking your step as you make your way to the centre, the audience hushed, the usherettes awed?
And you know, you don’t need to worry about forgetting your lines. There never was a line that you didn’t know. The script is unravelling as we speak. Unveiling and revealing. And the picture your words are making is all down to you. You get to decide how you develop this role. You get to choose whether to play your life in a major or minor key. But just remember this. The world will not thank you for playing it small. There are no brownie points for hiding your light beneath layers and layers of false belief. Just as a star is born to shine, so are you.
Because if there is one thing this life is not, is a dress rehearsal. It sounds trite and cliche, but it’s no less true for that. The tickets have been sold, the programmes printed, the stage is set, the chorus line rehearsed… all that remains is for you to begin. Just start. Just say anything. Anything at all. It’s ok. It’ll be the right thing. Just go ahead. Begin.
You start off in a faltering voice, the trembling augmented by the echo, as your words bounce back at you. Someone coughs. You shuffle your feet, and tug at your clothes. In all honesty, you are wishing that you hadn’t come along this evening. You could have stayed at home, put your feet up, had a cup of tea, watched EastEnders, caught up on FaceBook friends. In fact, what the hell are you doing here? Didn’t you always want an easy life? Didn’t you? Didn’t you?
But deep down in your secret heart, that place where time dies and revives every second, that place where you know it’s all just an illusion, that place where you are still and always you… there, you know that you are not here to hide behind a mug of tea and an avatar. You know you were born to be a diva. To inhale deeply and let your voice carry you forth on the dust motes dancing in the limelight. This time your voice is stronger. It has a resonance, a timbre. You stand there knowing that you can be heard all the way up to the gods.
And the gods are listening. They’re all rooting for you to give an inspired performance. They’re willing you on, not keeping you in check. Not proclaiming your worth or defining your limits. They’re longing that you’ll choose to be ‘big’ – live life as large as you can; larger, in fact. That round of applause that you hear… that’s them. That’s them rejoicing that you chose to give a stand out performance of being you. That you shoved aside fear, and stepped beyond the comfort zone.
Because there are relatively few rewards for taking a minor part, for being an understudy. Wouldn’t you rather dance, sing, perform like no-one was watching? Wouldn’t you rather be a diva? A radiant diva that attracts all the light when she walks onto the stage. Luminous and free. Wouldn’t you rather be the star you are, and not the walk-on part you play, terrified that even the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other might be beyond you?
Because we are all stars – points of light in the theatre of a collective imagination – divas on the stage of our existence.
Are you ready for your big performance? How do you command the stage? How would you describe your stage presence?
Yoga
On a recommendation from the delightful @suburbanyogini I bought Darren Main’s Yoga and the Path of the Urban Mystic. I cannot tell you how much I am enjoying it, and I’m finding that it is really helping my yoga practice. It’s not a book for poses, technique etc. As Darren says it’s more about how to take yoga off the mat and into the world.
I found the following quote from that book particularly reassuring:
Yoga, like all mystical traditions, is a practice, not perfection. It is the process of returning to your yoga practice over and over again that gives you the benefits. Doing the perfect yoga pose or clearing your mind of all thought is well and good, but in the end it is the practice of returning to yoga that allows you to live life to the fullest.
I just love that. I returned to my yoga practice this morning not seeking perfection – just returning. Returning.
Writing
Today I seem to have turned my words towards reminiscence. I don’t really know why. But then, as I’ve discovered, I so very rarely know why I choose to write about anything. I realize now that I have returned in my writing practice, just as I have returned to my yoga practice.
Grandad wanted just to drive us back home again. He had driven me and my tiny daughter the 6 and a bit hours to get to our new home on the north western tip of Scotland, and now that we had arrived, the disappointment was palpable. Our home sat on the edge of the kyle: a long inlet where the Atlantic flows past, shaping and reshaping the sand bars. It was an old shepherd’s cottage built sometime in the early nineteenth century; its walls were a dirty whitewash, its outbuildings crumbling with rust red corrugated iron roofs, its coal shed door was lying off its hinges. Quite frankly, it was a tad uninspiring.
I pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door swung open to reveal concrete floors, dirt-encrusted walls… it was dark, dirty, and I was thinking that I had made a big mistake. This was our new, fresh start. Our wee girl was only just turned 1 and I was 7 months pregnant with our son and I was standing in this house in the middle of nowhere, which was an utter shambles, and, as I was about to discover, had no electricity or running water. I felt my daughters small chubby arms wrap around my legs, and I bent down to pick her up. Balancing her on my hip, I turned to look at my grandparents who both had a look of horror and dismay.
“It’ll be fine.” I try to reassure them, although even I cannot deny the waver that has entered my voice. “All it really needs is a lick of paint. And some carpet. And a bit of a spring clean.” I realize that I’m not convincing either them or myself. My baby starts to cry, and I can feel the tears spring to my own eyes. Grandma and Grandad don’t seem far off crying either. They reluctantly turn to leave, Grandad placing a £20 note in my hand as we hug. “For paint”, he tells me. I walk them to the door, and my baby and I, we wave good-bye and blow kisses as they drive back down the single track road.
We stand there watching until the car turns the corner and can no longer be seen. Then it is just the two of us, standing outside a house that is barely inhabitable, surrounded by miles and miles of empty wilderness. As far as my gaze allows, I can see no evidence of humanity other than the single track road which runs empty in each direction. I am 20 years old and I am the most isolated I’ve ever been, both then and since. We leave that house a year later, and the whole area a year after that.
Fast forward one decade…
The sky stretching out over kyle and cape is a clear blue. Not a cloud can be seen, and the water is smooth, glassy, turquoise. I am standing in front of the house that used to be my home and my children are running in the field that slopes down to the shore. I slip my hand into my husband’s and look up at him, wondering whether to ask the question that has settled upon the moment. “Did we make the right decision moving away? Did we choose correctly? Look at how free the children are. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we should move back. Maybe.”
I am seduced by its wild beauty. The months of wind and rain, the drafts that whistled through the house, the isolation, the dark nights so black that I could not see my hand in front of my face… they all evaporate like dew under the heat of a northern sun. All I can think of is the freedom, the air, the water, the land… the solitude. The lack of neighbours that left me so utterly desolate ten years ago suddenly seems like bliss. I feel the strongest need to retreat, to run away and live on the edge of the wilderness. Far away from the madding crowd.
But it’s not to be. It’s not right for us, and we know it. As we drive away along that single-track road, in the wing mirror I catch site of the peeling white wash, the rusting red roofs of the outbuildings, the gate where I stood and waved goodbye to my grandparents, and there… there I find release. I am set free, and the memories that I have of this corner of the world are gently wrapped in the fabric of my heart and placed gently, reverently in the past.
As we drive back down south, the narrow road winding its way past wild cotton and marsh reed, a bird of prey soars overhead. Circling on thermals, its wings spread wide and its eyes far-seeing. We drive on, facing the future.
What do you find yourself returning to? Are you returning by choice or by habit?
Yoga
Finding it a little difficult to fit in my yoga now as my uni teaching has started. However, I’ve worked through my practice tonight, and I feel so much better for it. I think one of the biggest lessons that I’ve learned from this challenge has been that I cannot sacrifice my own needs as readily as I have in the past. It doesn’t feel good. And when I take the time to practice my yoga… well, that just feels yummy.
Writing
If I’m finding time to do my yoga practice difficult, then the writing practice is ten times harder! However, I had a wonderful prompt today, which I’ve used to get the words flowing…
A huge pile of white feathers eddies and swirls revealing and concealing the dark tarmac pavement. As each bus and car passes, a gust of wind catches them and they move as one. Dancing in the exhaust. Beside the white sea of mobile fluff stand the bus-stop, its clear windows revealing stray feathers caught in the roadside weeds.
I am waiting for the number 16, and I’m hoping it’ll be late. I’m hoping it won’t arrive in four minutes time as it’s scheduled, because I cannot take my eyes off these feathers. And as I watch them sway and twirl, I am struck by one overwhelming question. It’s a very simple question consisting of only one word. How?
Gabriel was waiting. He wasn’t especially keen on waiting. Uriel was much more patient. While Gabriel paced, Uriel stood still, the wind moving around his bare feet, ruffling the feathers of his wings. “Oh look, here he comes now” muttered Gabriel under his breath, as Michael’s distinctive form moved into sight. He was running, and behind him the bus appeared.
Jangling the change in his hands, Gabriel shifted from foot to foot. “Come on, come on.” Michael was always late. For an archangel he had an appalling sense of time. And today of all days, he really needed to be here on time. If he misses this bus… well, who’s to say what would happen.
Uriel calmly stepped forward and hailed the bus. Michael was still running flat out, but had now been overtaken by the maroon double-decker. He was clearly out of breath, as he sucked in large breaths of humid June air, and sweat began to trickle down either temple.
“We should just let him miss it,” Gabriel said. “That’s not very charitable, is it? Where’s your generosity? Your tolerance?” Uriel replied. “I think I lost it right around the time I knew we were going to have to travel today by public transport.” snapped Gabriel.
The bus pulled over to the side of the road, and its doors opened. Uriel climbed aboard first, and slowly dropped his fare into the ticket dispenser. Gabriel ascended next, and not bothering to buy Michael more time, threw in his change, and moved off down the aisle dodging shopping bags, buggies and an labrador pup, to find a seat beside a surly, acne bespeckled teen.
The bus-driver was just readying to move off, and had just placed his finger to the button to close the doors, when Michael arrived, huffing and puffing at the bus-stop, and leapt from kerb to bus. Unfortunately for Michael, while his feet landed square upon the bus, his wings got caught in the closing doors. After a struggle, which saw Michael surge forward towards the alarmed bus-driver, only to be pulled back by his trapped wings, he managed to wriggle free. Rummaging in his pocket for his fare, his face said it all. “Gabriel? You couldn’t lend us a pound twenty, could you?”
The bus pulled away from the stop where the three archangels alighted, leaving behind a swirling, dancing pile of the softest white feathers.
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