Keeping the Dream

As I walked outside today I could not help but notice how incredibly blue the sky was and the breathtaking contrast between it and the billowy white clouds that filled my senses almost as much as the sky they floated against.

Earlier today I had written an article about the importance of surrounding yourself with good people, people who embraced life, who embraced their creative passion.

And it is true. When we lose our creative passion in abusive relationships, being and feeling isolated plays a large role in that loss. It stands to reason then that allowing ourselves to be supported, to belong, to be inspired would be crucial to our recovery.

Today I let my support network go beyond the beautiful people in my life and reached for the sky…literally.

I’m not blind, and I’m not naive. I know how low humanity can sink, and I know that I’ve only seen a small part of it. But I want to see my world as friendly, because seeing it as scarey doesn’t change anything for the better. I can be mindful of needing to protect myself, to make wise decisions when going about in public and use sensible caution at home.

But I’m not so blind or so naive to think that that would guarantee me safety in anything. There’s no guarantee. So if there isn’t, why fill up any more of my time, my precious moments given to me to live, with fear?

I want to see my world as a friendly place. Not foolishly but mindfully…deliberately.

I will not stop helping where I am needed and where I can. I will not stop writing about things that are hurtful and need to be brought to light.

But I will not stop myself from looking at the refracted light of the atmosphere and the chemical composition of clouds and seeing a beauty reflected there that’s meant just for me.

I am surrounded by friends. Most are not even human. But I feel a connection that tells me, assures me, I am not alone.

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I give up. No, seriously. I’ve tried and tried to establish a writing schedule – a few hours a day, a few days a week, all day, partial days, first thing in the morning, last thing at night, in the middle of the night, at the crack of dawn.

I have never been able to stick to any of them.

The reasons varied. Sometimes it was because I was involved with men throughout my life who, while they liked the idea of my creativity, didn’t like the actual reality of me doing it.

And sometimes it wasn’t the time and discipline but the passion with which I embraced it that threatened the men in my life. (Actually had someone tell me once he’d rather I work 12 hour shifts in a factory than spend time, even if less, with my music and writing, because I wouldn’t love my factory work like I did my creativity.)

Other times it was survival demands as a mother, more often than not, single mother, throughout my parenting career,

But much of the time it was me, not being able to claim time for me, not able to create the space I felt I needed. Or spending my energy on wrestling with my own hungry dragons – they’re ravenous when they awaken – or doing my Atlas thing trying to hold up what seemed a whole world, my world, of crushing depression on my shoulders.

My artist’s life never seemed to appear but for temporary moments, elusive, never really here or staying long if they were.

Well, what if it never came – my artist’s life? What if the most I could ever hope for were sporadic opening and closing of windows, borrowed time, stolen time? Should I pout and resent, because the sun doesn’t shine every day for me?

What if those window shutters weren’t shutters at all, but clouds drifting across sky, hiding not the sun but opening a shadow umbrella to protect me from the heat?

And what if, instead of seeing what I don’t have, or becoming blind with frustration, I looked up to see what shapes, what stories, what fantasies come to me in shapes of puff and white against the blue? And when the clouds are flat and gray, what if I let the tears that fall from them wash and refresh me even still anew?

What if my general assumptions were in error to begin with, if it’s not about having “writing time” or “recording time”, but being present enough to just have this time?

Because maybe I have been doing to myself what others have – demand of my time out of expectations, and not allowing time itself to speak to me in its own voice.

Today, I had a number of writing sessions. Some short, some longer, but I took them throughout the day as they presented themselves. And because I wasn’t demanding that a block of time be this or that, my day was peaceful – grateful for the time I had to write, and present for the time I didn’t.

I can wake up early enough and start the day with my manuscript and tea. And what gets done gets done. And what doesn’t doesn’t. But I will be, truly be, wherever I am. I give up the struggle.

And something tells me, I will wind up accomplishing more than I can even think right now…not because of any determination on my part, but because a huge space has opened up inside me – the wonderful kind, the rich and fertile kind.

And it’s occurred to me, that what had been taking up my time more than anything else must have been my own anxiety and my own demands on me.

I did not know how to protect my time from those who would use it for their own purpose, and I did not know how to protect my time from my own demands. But I think I’m getting there.

Today was a good day…not a writing day, though I did that.

It was a good day that was simply lived.

I had always believed in the power of creativity, particularly the healing power. It was the power of song that had pulled me through so much of my healing journey – addressing the incest, answering the pain, comforting the tantrums of an inner child, trying to understand her, when at times the only thing she could do was look at me with reproachful eyes.

The songs I wrote were my life link, finding expression not only for the ears and hearts of others, but in the writing, the singing, and even in the hearing later after recording, they ministered to me.

And it was all about the message for me, to get the message out – the message of healing and hope. And I tried to express that message in creative venues whenever I could, in between everything else, part-time, whenever I had a chance, half the time arguing whether I even should, stealing moments before the sun rose, staying up late after everyone else had gone to bed.

I marveled how some people could take an entire day to barbecue and party with friends, and yet, I felt like I was asking for so much with a four hour recording session. I argued and I resented, but by my acquiescence I agreed, my creativity did not merit.

I never paid much attention to the message I was giving me. I counted it an accomplishment to finally put a CD together after 14 years. And it was. But my creative spirit was anorexic by that time.

Over the past few years, with the growing illnesses of two people whom I loved dearly, my creative endeavors became fewer and fewer, and the writing and recording virtually stopped. A few good faith starts, a bit of inspiration here and there, but nothing with any longevity.

And then November came: NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. To write 50,000 words in thirty days, commencing midnight, November 1st through November 30th.

So, shall I give birth to a novel on November 30th, I asked, as I had given birth to my first born 28 years ago?

The thought was absolutely ridiculous. I’m homeschooling, work full-time, plus I have this other manuscript I’ve been working on forever, and ever and ever. That’s all I need – another project.

But it was just crazy enough, and so impractical and foolish to be appealing to me that I jumped right in and signed up.

Truth be known, I had signed up in 2008 and 2009. Total word count for each of those years? Zero. Not a single word. But I liked knowing about it, and following it, kind of.

Not this year. Starting midnight, November 1st, I began to carve out time in my day to write, and I haven’t stopped, and I haven’t apologized.

And somehow everything else has gotten done. I’m still home schooling, even more efficiently, I may add. And I paid my bills on time this week. And the dog gets let out and my house doesn’t look half bad. So it’s no showcase, but then it never is, not even in my most domestic moments.

So I’ve been making daily word count posts at my dreamsinger page at facebook. And I’m proud to say that as of this writing (and I’ll have another session this evening) I have 15,086 words.

What is amazing me in this first week is seeing just how transforming adopting this writing commitment, carving out space in my day to write is. I’m not just tallying up the word count. I’m feeling better about myself with each day.

And I’m beginning to realize that, for me, this isn’t about writing a book. It just looks like it is. It’s not even about the message you give to others through your writing or your songs or whatever avenue your art takes.

It’s what you tell yourself about you through the relationship you have with your own creativity.

And if that’s all I get out of it, then it’s what I’ve lived my whole life to achieve. It only gets better from here.

I revised my website tonight. And worked on a story.

I feel tired in that wonderful, glorious way you feel when you’ve exerted yourself and accomplished something. Not that I haven’t been accomplishing quite a bit with all my endeavors of late…but it wasn’t my creativity. Not my artistic creativity.

Without a doubt, homeschooling is one of the most creative – and satisfying – endeavors I have ever engaged in. But it’s not like writing a song or penning a story or finding a way to let your soul speak through imagery, tone and color.

I need that. How many times will I need to remind myself? Oh, well…at least I do manage to find myself back to the place where I always wonder how I ever left. But I’m there. Tonight, I am there.

I took off work. Partly because I’m still not over my virus, and the physical symptoms are starting to scare me. Better pay attention.

And partly because I just thirsted for a long drink of silence. Right now it feels warm, like a hot cup of tea falling in slow motion into your stomach, a soft landing, a slight explosion of comfort radiating outward.

And I think I just might be able to sleep tonight. I just might.

It’s interesting the last post I wrote here is entitled “Losing Our Childhood”.

What about our present moments? What about your life? The one you wanted to craft, the one you dreamt of creating, the one that’s supposed to be rich in experiences with those closest to you, with your creative passions and love.

You can’t have everything, and the closer toward the end of my life I travel, the more I appreciate just how true that is. So priorities become dearer and each moment is cherished all that much more.

These are not moments to be used up in anxiety or hurt or anger or any of those emotions that suck the life out of you.

I want my artist life back. Heck, I want it fully and wholly for the first time. Because everything I have ever done has always been on borrowed time, has always been with some kind of apology or after some kind of struggle to wrest a piece of it for myself. That’s why it took me four years to create our first CD from the time we started recording to the time the CD was pressed; why it took me so long to ever write the songs.

I don’t regret any of the time I have spent helping loved ones who truly needed my help. I do regret not protecting more of my time with my children from people who had no right to it but took it anyway. But in these past couple days, I have realized that I really do need to make a change. I need to make a change in my life and embrace that life like I never have before.

I’m an artist. That is not a dirty word. This is not a confession. It’s a declaration.

I’m an artist who needs to write – not just spend countless hours journaling out my feelings over having been verbally abused or emotionally slammed or strung along or betrayed or disrespected or some other natural consequence that arise from toxic situations, but to truly write – manuscripts and songs, to learn the musical instruments I’ve always wanted to learn or improve, to pick up a paint brush and perhaps even paint.

I need to come back to that artistic center, my artistic self and do what I need to do before I die. Life is short, and death often comes unexpected. I don’t mean to sound morbid here, but the resource that is most squandered is time – and not one of us has so much we can afford to do that.

And if you don’t value yourself, don’t expect anyone else to. If you’re not considerate of your time, don’t expect others to be. If you don’t prioritize your art and its development, don’t expect others to set up your easel for you or fill your fountain pen. It’s your creativity. It’s your life. You have to live it or watch it slip away.

I’m back. I’ve been in a state of shock or mourning or loss or something. I’ve resurfaced and then gone back under. But today I come kicking back up to the surface, my lungs gasping for air. I’m mad. I’m inspired. I’ve been laid flat and I’m coming up swinging.

Things are going to change. And this time I’m determined my words won’t come back to taunt me.

This time they won’t merely be a record of what I failed to do, but the beginning of what I finally accomplished.

I will not be so afraid anymore.

This is one of the things I have learned. That despite all my assertions to wanting to share my writings and music, I am actually afraid to do so. Sabotage in all its forms from procrastination to just plain stupidity provides me that false sense of safety over and over again.

And the closer I get to actually stepping out into the spotlight, as it were, the more desperate my attempts to prevent that.

Not that I actually succeed in that all the time, mind you. I’ve performed and written articles and what not, quite a number of times. But I hold myself back from what I could do and travel to where I could go.

I travel at a snail’s pace, and recently, it’s been brought to my attention that I would even hurt myself than to become who I am meant to be. Crazy isn’t it?

But it’s not all that uncommon. Too many people who have so much to offer hold back.

But I will not be so afraid anymore. I am looking this beast in the eye. I won’t fight it. That’s another act of sabotage. I will look upon this part of my being with compassion.

Then perhaps, it will choose to come along with me as the healthy sense of survival and discernment it’s meant to be.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mother and every person who has ever given birth to anything – whether it be a living, breathing person or a dream that insists on a life of its own.

Stacey showed me the “final” version of The Last Farewell. I put “final” in quotes, because he said he wants to make one more mix with a little less reverb on the voice, to see if the lyrics will a little clearer.

But I love, love, love what he has done with the arrangement and production. As usual, he has managed to capture the emotion and intent of the song. It’s beautiful. You know you’ve done good when the song you wrote, the picture you’ve painted, the sculpture you’ve created touches you as if you’re experiencing something someone else has created for the first time.

That is why I believe, in some way, the song, the work of art seeks the artist. No art is ever made from scratch, as if put together by nuts and bolts, but as a soul seeking to be born.

It feels so good to be able to record. It feels good to do something for someone who grieves. It’s really all I want to do with my music. To offer comfort and a little hope. Little is all you need. That’s how powerful Life is.