Our creativity got hijacked. I would maybe say that differently: mine got kidnapped and held for ransom. However, I am ever more reminded how it does not go away; it lies quietly dormant waiting to be joyously and exuberantly remembered. Treat the world – LIFE – like a scavenger hunt. Because it is.
Susan’s Scavenger Hunt for you today: find these 5 things: 1) something you are proud of, 2) something you would happily do again, 3) five consecutive minutes of peaceful thought, 4) a stream of light where you didn’t expect it, and 5) a gentle sound from nearby.
AND, one extra: find the color of your eyes in something today.
It isn’t news to any of us that there is a fine line between self-aware and self-absorbed. Statistically social science tells us that we all think we are more self-aware than we actually are. That makes sense, of course. We all have unconscious blinders, aka childhood and cultural conditioning, that prevent us from seeing ourselves accurately. That’s why we are here in this clutzy animal body inhabiting our life as if we understand what’s going on here. I don’t know about you, but I feel increasingly clueless. Not for lack of trying to grow and become more conscious. It is, after all, the only dance in town. The unexamined life is not worth living, as Socrates said.
This blog has saved my life too many times to count over the years, both my physical and mental well-being. I cannot find words to express my gratitude for your readership; it is a huge privilege. But I struggle every single time I sit down at the keyboard to spill my guts here. It feels so self indulgent. My constant hope is that you each find something useful or insightful for your own well being. And I know that I repeat myself a lot. I find it near impossible to believe that I have anything interesting to say. I wish you’d all ask questions or comment about your interests.
Today I’m feeling particularly vulnerable. So I will revert back to sharing an old video I’ve shared before. I watch it from time to time just to remind myself that this is all sacred.
“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.” – Maya Angelou
Recently I wrote that my mojo was missing like Car 54…and then I wrote nothing for weeks. I had nothing. Crickets. Where does it go, the muse, the inspiration, the energy…life? In the barometer of my body it feels to have dropped…way down deep inside. And it feels like death. Well, not that I know what death feels like, although I’ve been close a few times. But it feels something has stopped breathing. It’s hibernating. It can’t be prodded or cajoled to surface; I have to wait until it – she – crawls out from under the covers. It’s always tentative at first. Shy. Vulnerable. Immature.
Music is often the ladder I climb out of that dark womb back to the misty surface of the early morning light. Many years ago a friend told me I have a musical heart, and I think I always have. I come from a family of musicians. I don’t seem to have any talent there, but I often dream in song.
The first time I heard Stevie Winwood’s haunting voice my soul recognized a fellow spirit. That’s what good art does. It wakes something hiding deep inside. How many times did I experience Stevie Winwood in concert? Spencer Davis Group, Blind Faith (at the Grande Ballroom?) Traffic at Joe Louis Arena – The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys tour in 1972 (the year I graduated high school.) I went to hear him. Not Eric Clapton, or Ginger Baker.
Sing to me, Stevie. I’m all alone in this cage, and somebody holds the key…
Last month was a blur. I spent the month in bed with pneumonia. Last week I had a clear chest exam. This week my OPD has flared up. No rest for the weary I guess. For those of you who don’t know, OPD is a spectrum disorder. Most of us have some degree of it. You might be surprised to learn that it is only slightly less prevalent in women than men, and that your risk is 37% higher if you live in the United States.
The symptoms of OPD (Obnoxious Personality Disorder) cause more harm than previously recognized here in the states, and are more easily identified in European countries frequented by American tourists. The expat population is currently being studied for their seeming immunity. Although one must wonder, if they didn’t somehow suffer the adverse affects of living around OPD, would they have moved abroad in the first place?
Symptoms often include an inflamed sense of entitlement, frequently followed by “the Karen effect.” One of my first clues of the flareup came around the need to wash dishes. Housework is often a trigger for me. I shouldn’t have to do it. Then there is the dilemma of having to cook for myself, but recent improvements in meal delivery options have helped with that.
The biggest trigger for me is the lack of high quality entertainment on the television. I subscribe to a dozen or more self-help streaming services and have thousands of movies and television series available to watch. Yet I am so picky that I can seldom find anything satisfying to quell the symptoms. I am frequently irritated, even at inanimate objects.
If you, too, suffer from the crippling effects of this disorder, know that there are resources available. Dial 1-800-I-BLAME-U, or try pulling your head out of your behind after a long, warm bath. This Netflix series will also help:
Phew. Well, I must say I wish I’d thought of this before now. And this is why I have always said, “remember, ultimately it will be the artists who save us.” They are the akashic librarians of the human experience. We don’t evolve without them, and conversely our evolution is not recorded without them. A hundred years from now – a hundred million years from now – who we were and how we transformed through time will only be told by the artists. It will be all that remains of us.
But more importantly than that, the remnants of their reports of our time on earth (so far) inform us today about our why. Would we be here without the artists, the creatives? Personally I don’t believe so. Creative innovation solves our problems, heals us, finds a way out of the dark. A way. Through the keyhole of time and space…
A Painterly Home 