New Art: Blue Jizo

// June 27th, 2011 // No Comments » // painting

Jizo Boddhisattva is a Buddhist saint and protector of children and travelers through physical and spiritual worlds. Jizo is often depicted sitting in the hell realms as he has taken a vow to not enter into full enlightenment until hell is empty, so he sits there saving all the trapped beings. One of the ways he does this is to shine a mirror into people’s faces so they can truly see themselves as they are. I know, not the cheeriest subject for a painting, but I do find the image of Jizo exuding peace, strength, and compassion amid the flames an inspiring one.

Acrylic on gallery stretched 5×5 inch canvas.

This painting is available to buy over at  my new Art page.

what I know about the bright idea

// June 16th, 2011 // 7 Comments » // creativity

Imagine This

// June 7th, 2011 // 3 Comments » // curiosity, writing

You are sitting at your desk

You are sitting at your desk staring at a blank page in your notebook

You are sitting at your desk staring at a blank page in your notebook and this blank page stares back up

You are sitting at your desk staring at a blank page in your notebook and this blank page stares back up as you twirl your favorite pen in one hand and nurse a mug of peppermint tea in the other

You are sitting at your desk staring at a blank page in your notebook and this blank page stares back up as you twirl your favorite pen in one hand and nurse a mug of peppermint tea in the other, you blow steam from the top of your mug because the tea is hot and it is very difficult to start writing

You are sitting at your desk staring at a blank page in your notebook and this blank page stares back up as you twirl your favorite pen in one hand and nurse a mug of peppermint tea in the other, you blow steam from the top of your mug because the tea is hot and it is very difficult to start writing when a robin bathes vigorously in the birdbath outside your window reminding you how low the water really is

You are sitting at your desk staring at a blank page in your notebook and this blank page stares back up as you twirl your favorite pen in one hand and nurse a mug of peppermint tea in the other, you blow steam from the top of your mug because the tea is hot and it is very difficult to start writing when a robin bathes vigorously in the birdbath outside your window reminding you how low the water really is and you go to the garden to fill the birdbath back up and maybe water the roses, and the rhododendrons by the back fence, before heading back in and then

You are sitting at your desk …

*****

If you’re a writer you might not have to imagine that scenario, you’ve probably spent enough time living it.

Writing can be such a difficult thing, I know I’ve spent way too much time staring at a blank page waiting for something to magically appear.

Sometimes all we need is a little space to help get in touch with what needs to be written, and a little support to help us dig deep and get the writing done.

That’s what the The Tea House Writing Sessions are designed for.

The Tea House Writing Sessions

// June 1st, 2011 // 3 Comments » // metaphor, writing

I used to sit regularly at a Buddhist center back in Australia. One of the members there was a student of the Japanese tea ceremony and she used to hold a tea ceremony for us once a month.

The center was in the inner suburbs of Sydney, and we sat on our meditation cushions in this large but austere room as the sounds of traffic, children playing in their yards, and banging pots and pans from families making dinner swirled around us.

In the middle of all this we created our own enclosed world, where we re-enacted this ancient Japanese ceremony. We sat together in silence as our host taught us to whisk the tea in just the right way, and we would take turns to serve each other as we drank green tea and munched sticky rice cakes filled with sweetened red bean paste.

I was struck by all the elements of the ceremony, the beauty of it, and the contemplative and appreciative state of mind it helped to build.

These are the qualities that I’ve been drawing on as I’ve been developing the new writing sessions I’ll be offering here.

I’ve been hoping to lead some sort of writing project with my blog for a while now, and wanted to come up with a way of working with people that included approaches that have been helpful for me, in a format that is also great fun to work with.

What I’ve come up with is called the Tea House Writing Sessions, and they’re going to be available very soon.

The Tea House Writing Sessions will be offered in the form of either one-on-one sessions or group calls. They will take place over phone (or Skype).

Writing can be fraught with anxiety and isolation, and it’s easy to put off. A Tea House session is a place where you can get some respite from writing anxiety, tap into your own courage and writing smarts, and get a little success on the spot.

I’m using the metaphor of a Japanese Tea Ceremony as a guiding principle for the writing sessions. We create a refuge, a retreat from the world, charged with spaciousness and presence and ease. And we write together from there.

I say “we” because during the session I’ll be writing too. We also have the opportunity to read our work out to each other. (Reading aloud is optional.)

A Tea House Writing Session is not a coaching session or a writing class. It floats somewhere in between (beside, around) those things.

My role is to build a supportive environment for people who would like to write, and to offer myself as a fellow traveller. And there’s a process to help guide you beyond anxiety, procrastination, deadlines, worry–to the joy of actually writing.

The process includes guided visualization, a writing/meditation technique, lots of writing time, and a chance to read back your work and get some appreciative feedback.

In the sessions I’ve held so far, everyone has brought their own gifts and style and life experience with them, and from there they spill out all kinds of alive and surprising material. The emphasis is on feeling safe to write, and when that happens people lean into the edges of their writing and take it to new places.

I’ll be opening up the Tea House sessions for bookings next Monday. Sign up for my newsletter and you’ll get an advanced discount code when they open.

The Tea House Writing Sessions are now available–you can read about them and sign up here.

Cicada Time

// May 20th, 2011 // 4 Comments » // metaphor, poetry, work in progress

A cicada shell;

it sang itself

utterly away.

Basho (trans.R.H.Blyth)

Late Spring in Australia is when the air swells with the piercing cry of countless cicadas. It feels like the ground, the gum trees, and the sky are all vibrating with them.

The sound is incessant, to the point where it almost distorts your sense of time. It’s a harsh sound, and it resonates perfectly with the searing blue skies.

Cicadas are huge insects and have a jewel-like intensity to them. Part of that intensity comes from the fact that, prior to moving into the trees, they spend up to seven years living underground.

They come up from the ground when it’s time, attach themselves to a tree and then shed their skins, emerging from the husk into the outside world.

Once they’re out they only live for a few weeks, and so they really let loose and make a noise in the time they have.

As a kid I always enjoyed finding the abandoned shells left on the trees in our backyard, and liked even more to find a live cicada and hold it in my hand for a while.

The last few months have felt like a cicada time for me, the underground part. I’ve been developing a format for the one on one and group writing sessions that I’m going to be offering soon on the blog.

Very exciting!

The thing is, that as I’ve been developing the writing exercises, using them myself and then trialing them with a few people, all my creative activity has gone into my notebooks and journals.

I’ve traded keyboard for pen, and social media for writing in solitude. It’s been a sudden turn into a different way of writing, and a good reminder that creativity is an ever-shifting thing. Though I haven’t been putting much of myself out into the world, a lot of work has been going on underground.

I’ve written hardly any blog posts over the last few months but have nearly two dozen poems written that are currently being polished for submission. I’m excited about that because I haven’t written or submitted much poetry at all for the last three years, and it shows me that the writing sessions generate a whole lot of writing.

Next week is the song part of the cicada time, when I climb above ground and introduce my new thing to the world. I’m also revamping my slumbering newsletter from next week with advance discounts on the writing sessions and monthly art giveaways.

You can sign up for the newsletter in the sidebar right now if you’re interested.

Hope to see you here on Monday, spread the word!

On The Cusp Of Creating

// May 3rd, 2011 // 3 Comments » // creativity, curiosity

Sometimes it seems like the fire’s extinguished, the Muse snuffed out all the lights as she left, everyone’s gone to sleep, and the streets have stilled.

It’s just me and a full, insolent moon staring down:

Moon: ”What?”

The thing about creativity is you never know.

Maybe this is a trance I’ve fallen into, maybe it’s a trance I’ve fallen out of, either way: this could be it.

Maybe yesterday was the last day, and nothing will ever be created again.

But also, maybe I’m on the cusp of creating the best thing I’ll ever create.

Who knows? I don’t know.  The only way to find out for sure is to pick up a pen, to pick up a brush.

If I’ve dug myself into a hole and don’t have the materials to build a ladder then I’ve learned that it’s good for me to pick up my shovel and think “tunnel” or “pole vault” or “whatever” and do something about it.

Because as someone who gets stuck, a lot, I know that just thinking isn’t going to get me out of that hole. Once I get to the point that I’ve realized I’m in a hole, I can guarantee there’s already been a lot of not-so-great thinking going on.

When I shift into taking action, not only do things start to happen, but my thinking loses the stale quality it had and starts to take on a different air.

Small actions enliven my mind like oxygen bubbling through a stagnant pool of water.

The actions can involve doing something directly related to my art, or something seemingly unrelated like walking a labyrinth, or Shiva Nata, even just going outside and pulling a few weeds. Anything helps.

And when acting, I start making associations and things start to get clearer, brighter.

This feels good, too. It reminds me of why I like to create things in the first place: that quickening of the mind and body that tells me something is coming, that tells me something fresh and new is on its way.

This information comes through as both thoughts and sensations. It’s an embodied sense, it’s not just an idea or a state of being–it’s both those things, it’s everything–and when it’s happening I feel really alive to it, and to me. I feel like I’m really here.

I remember when I was a kid and my parents would drive us to the beach, approaching the coast there would always be these hills and dunes before we arrived, and I’d be stretching and straining to get the briefest of glimpses out the window: a flash of blue, swells moving in, a wave crashing over rocks.

It was a whole-body thing. I’d be tense and alert, my eyes would be scanning like mad. My mind was taking everything in and forming mental pictures of the surf–the size, if it was choppy or not, how crowded it was.

Once we got out of the car and started racing down to the water, the excitement was still there but that initial tension had been released.

That’s what it feels like when I’m in the act of creating, when the idea has appeared and things are happening.

There’s still an alertness and joy in everything that’s going on, but the initial burst of adrenaline always comes from those last few minutes of moving from total stuck-ness, to the glimpse of an idea, the picture being assembled in my head, and knowing this was going to happen.

I also remember that I used to, kind of, hate those last few minutes in the car.

As exciting as it was it was also hugely frustrating. I’m an immersive person. If I see an ocean I want to be in it. Forest, in. I’m claustrophobic and terrified of caves, but if I see one I want to go in. I like to be in the middle of things.

I like especially to be in the middle of creating things, right in that sweet spot where everything is flowing along nicely, thank you very much, and great things are emerging.

So not knowing what’s coming next, feeling creatively frozen, when the fires seem out–that’s the point just before everything gets great again. I know that, and also, I’m really good at forgetting that, at allowing myself to get immersed in that feeling too.

The other thing that’s easy to forget is the remedy: that when the idea of ever creating again seems insurmountable, like some great mountain looming over me, all it takes to shift things is to pick something up.

It can be an object so small it fits in the palm of my hand–a pen, a brush– and that small tool, put into action, can wipe away entire mountains, shadow and all.