In Love With The Words

1.'Containers for the Soul'--Cat Fink
‘Containers For The Soul’

I am halfway through reading Mary Karr’s book The Art Of Memoir.

I’ve yet to read her other books (my friend just lent me The Liar’s Club), but this particular book’s title showed up three times in the past two weeks, twice in random emails, and then at my friend’s home where I was visiting.  When something shows up repeatedly in my life, it’s a clue.  I need to check it out.

I love how Mary keeps moving back and forth between her passion for memoir and the truth of how fugitive our memories can be.  There’s a fascination with the words, and how the words make her feel, and how odd memory is when we try to pin it down into a story.

I loved hearing stories long before I started school, yet I know for sure I became a different person the day I learned to read for myself.

I see flashes of this particular memory.  Sitting with my classmates at the back of our classroom.  New reader open on my lap, the hand-painted pictures, and the words in large black print underneath the images.  Words printed so big, they feel like they are yelling.  I can smell the reader, its singular dusty, papery odour.  I can feel the stiff round edges of the cover in my hands, the coolness of it as it lies on my bare knees.

I don’t know if I took this reader, or the next, home.  I do know at some point in Grade One I began taking home each new reader as I received it, and read the whole thing in one huge swallow.

I needed the words and story and how they made me feel.  I could not go slowly with a new book.  I had to eat it all right away.

A new book burned in me.  Fierce anticipation.  Curiosity that yelled “Now!”  Satisfaction—too dull a word for the fire I experienced.  Fulfillment and wholeness are closer, yet again nowhere near the wild, bright joy I felt, and still feel, with each new book in my hands.  I understand why ‘voracious’ is paired with ‘reader’.  Even the sound of ‘voracious’ when I say it out loud echoes my feelings.  The word growls.

I became a different person the day I learned to read.  I became hungry for words and story and books.  Addicted.  Completely.

There was a wild, bright, fiery space in me waiting for words, story, reading, books to show up.

There is always a wild, sharp, open space in me waiting for the next new book.  Words have taken over my life.  I read.  I write.  I play with crosswords and Scrabble.  I even write on my drawings; plain image is no longer enough.  My friends are readers and writers.

Some might mutter “obsessed” with a kind of tsk-tsk tone.  I say “Glorious!”

At six years old, in Grade One, I did not know the words I’m using here.  If someone had asked me what I felt when I was reading, the word I would have answered with is “Love.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you Mrs. Johnson, for teaching me to read and love words and story and books.

_______________________

In this post,

Mary Karr, The Art Of Memoir, HarperCollins, 2015; and The Liars’ Club: a memoir, Penguin Books, 1996.  https://www.marykarr.com/

It’s true.  We human beings can’t help it.  We are words and memory and story.  We create and recreate ourselves and our world when we say “let me tell you a story.”  It happens every time.

Sunny With Cloudy Breaks

rainbow.flowers 017How happy am I allowed to be?

This question has been coming up since the weekend.  I’m not getting anywhere thinking about it, so I am writing about it instead.

I had an awesome good Sunday.  Everything and everyone was sweet in some way.  Basically, I swam in joy all day, no matter what I was doing.  Play or household tasks (there were a few), it made no difference to my mood.  I sailed through the day, fair winds prevailing.

I woke Monday feeling the opposite.  Monday, my mood was resistance and struggle, no matter what I was doing.  Reading?  I love reading.  Monday, I could not find a book that satisfied me, and I have a lot of books.  Word puzzles?  I love those too.  Monday, I had no patience for them.  They made me feel angry instead.

Monday’s mood continued on and off, mostly on, through Tuesday and Wednesday.  Today I have had enough of this miserable weather.  I am writing it out of me and onto the page where I can see it.

Something happened after the sweet Sunday.  Something said I’d used up my quota of happiness, and I turned off the flow.

Yes, I did that to myself.  I am the one who chooses how I feel about everything in my life.  Here, now, I can either choose to find ways and help to lift my mood, or not.

How happy am I allowed to be?  How happy do I let myself be?

These are not the same question.  The first implies someone else puts the cap on my happiness.  The second says I own the happiness control in my life.

My heart is my happiness control.  I learned how to open my heart to love, and I know how this feels.  I also know how my closed heart feels.  Sunday, my heart was open to life.  Monday, I closed down and stayed closed.  I was missing my Dad, and it hurt too much so I closed my heart.

That simple.  I closed my heart, and then all felt like struggle.

Enough struggle.  I have an idea about my happiness level.  Yes, I miss my Dad fiercely, and I also love him fiercely.  So, I choose I can miss him and love him at the same time.  Let my heart be open to both feelings.  My heart is big.  It can handle it.  I know how much Dad loved me and still loves me though he’s not here in body.  I feel it every day, and I love him right back.

I choose.  I give myself permission to be happy as much and as often as I please.  I give myself permission to not be okay when I need to not be okay.  Be happy and be sad, and let my heart play fully with all in my life.  Not bittersweet.  Sadsweet, and more sweet than sad because the love is so huge.

I feel sunny again.  There are clouds too, but fair winds prevail and the clouds will pass.

_______________________

In this post:

I learned how to open my heart to love through Dee Wallace’s Red Dot exercise, and I wrote about it here   https://catfinkknowtrustchoosecreate.com/2014/12/23/   and here   https://catfinkknowtrustchoosecreate.com/2014/12/24/  ,  with Dee’s permission.

You rock, Dee!  Thanks, with love as always.  https://iamdeewallace.com/

Tea With A Friend

iced tea at Disneyland.blogA good friend came by today, a fellow artist who I see weekly in the Fall and Winter when I am living in my northern home.  She’s on vacation at the moment, so we took our time.  We talked, caught ourselves up on each other’s families and lives.  We drank tea with lemon.

She told me of a painting she’s creating of the clouds of Jupiter, and a show coming up next month.  I read her some of the back story I am writing for my book draft.  Too quickly (isn’t it always) our visit was done.  We hugged and said goodbye, and she left for the ferry.

My friends who paint and write are blessings in my life.  More than a blessing, they are supports in my life.  We trade inspiration and plans, questions and comments, successes and struggles.  Our friendships are a safe space to play with our creative ideas, the ones only yet a glimmer or half-grown, as well as the ones ready for the world.

There is power in our relationships.  I know I am a better artist and writer because of these women.  I trust them to see what I have missed or hidden from myself, and ask me the questions that need asking.  My images and words are clearer and more focussed because of these friendships.  I am more courageous in what I create because I know they have my back and I have theirs.

Our visit today reminds me how essential and treasured time with friends is for me.  Everything we talk of, families and art and writing, strengthens us, makes us laugh, soothes us.  We help make each other whole.

Our visit today reminds me it is coming time to meet some new artist-writer friends here in my new home.  Yes, find more kindred spirits, as Anne of Green Gables would say.

Thank you, Lynn and Kate.  Thank you, Wren and Yvonka and Fran.  You help me be the artist and writer I am.

Writing Like Breathing

rainbow.flowers 017There are times when I write, and it feels like breathing.  This is one of them.

Like breath.  Essential, easy, effortless.  A flow that is so simple and natural I have no conscious awareness of activity and my involvement in it.  No awareness of time or place passing.

In these moments, I am.  It is that simple.  Two words, I am.  I feel no boundary between me and all around me.  I am.  We are.

This is pure pleasure, when writing is like breathing.  Writing for the pleasure of hearing thoughts pass through, for the pleasure of feeling my hand roll and loop and form words on a page.  Writing because here in this moment all is perfect.

When writing is like breathing, all is whole.  Nowhere is anything broken or chipped away.  I feel settled, at peace in mind and body, content in heart and spirit.

When writing is like breathing, I am blessed.  Writing this way, when it happens, is pure gift.  I am my truest self.  A feeling through every cell in my body, I am.  I am love, I am joy, I am breath.

When writing is like breathing, I am my river voice, flow and music.  I am life writing life.

I am.

The Way Through Is Love

ibuiltmycastles
I Build My Castles in the Sky

I led a writing workshop last Saturday.  In the conversations and the writing, two life experiences showed up common to everyone.

Early in our lives, we discovered we loved creating with words, images, music, or movement.  Then later, someone told us with great certainty that we would never be a writer, an artist, a musician, a dancer, an actor, a you-name-it creative person.  Invariably, the someone making this pronouncement was in a position of authority or trust.  We were told by parents, teachers, and peers.

When this happened to me, the someone was a university art professor.

I heard “You will never be an artist.” and I stopped drawing for seventeen years.  Mine was not the longest gap.  One person in Saturday’s writing workshop was coming back to her love of creating after fifty years.  I have met people who never recovered from the experience.

This happens not only to those in the arts.  This happens to all of us.  We love doing something.  We have a dream.  And then someone says to us, “You will never be.  This will never be.”

Why does someone tell another person, “You will never be.  This will never be.”?

What makes someone so sure they know another person’s future?

I don’t know the answers to the questions I ask.  What I do know is that the way through hearing “you will never be” is love.

I left the visual arts degree program after hearing “you will never be.”  I still grieve the loss.  I wonder what I would be doing now, what kind of life I would have if I had stayed.  And at the same time, I know the life I did have prepared me to return to the art I loved and claim the title of Artist as mine.

During the years of not drawing, I kept my love of making things with my hands.  I found other ways to create.  I crocheted and embroidered and sewed.  I learned to weave, loved it, acquired a floor loom, and took over the extra bedroom in the house as my loom room.  I learned to spin and dye yarn.  My family and friends were the recipients of all this making.

I began calling myself a fibre artist, and loved how I felt when I used those words.  They felt like me.

Then I discovered a new love, weaving tapestry.

I saw complex images in my mind, the tapestries I wanted to weave.  But I discovered I was not able to recreate the images on paper, in preparation for planning the woven piece.

The Universe stepped in to support my love of making, and offered me two things.  My sister introduced me to the book The Artist’s Way, and I discovered there was an art school ten blocks from my home.  I said yes to both.

Love brought me full circle, back to drawing.

My love of creating with my hands would not let me go, and I listened to that love.  It helped me find ways of making that carried me through and healed me of you-will-never-be.

If someone says to you, “You will never be”, let yourself feel the hurt.  Then find a way to walk back into what you know you love, and walk through.  Love is your power.  I believe in you.

_______________________

In this post:

Book The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, 25th Anniversary Edition published by Penguin, 2016.  Originally published by Tarcher Putnam in 1992, and republished by Tarcher Putnam in 2002.  Julia’s website is at http://juliacameronlive.com/

Words Between Love and Grief

feb3.2014 006I asked for breathing room.

Grief said, no.

_________________________

Grief folds my heart,

abandons it on the kitchen table.

I do not recognize this different kind of love.

_________________________

My heart is sad.  I love it anyways.

_________________________

My heart moved next door.

It says it’s not coming back.

_________________________

I thought there was no cost to loving so well and completely.

I stand corrected.

_________________________

Let my heart rest.

It’s been trying so hard to stay in love.

Let my heart rest.

_________________________

 

 

 

Creation Space: An Ode To Library Magic

1.'Containers for the Soul'--Cat Fink
‘Containers For The Soul’

Today the sun is out.  Fresh air and a change of view feel terribly appealing.  I have a book on hold at the public library.  I’ll go pick it up.

I walk into the library and head for the circulation desk.  As I walk, I hear in my mind the words ‘creation space’.

Oho.  I get it.  There is library magic arising.  Picking up the book on hold was only an excuse to get me here.  The real reason I am here—to write a blog post about libraries and creation space.  I borrow my book, join the librarian in praising the sunny day, then look for one of my favourite reading-writing-imagining spots.

And now here I am, writing.  I have a round table all to myself.  Books, Ipod, my canvas pencil case with the words ‘I like big books’ stencilled on it, pencils, and paper are scattered around me.  Total happiness.

I love libraries.  Libraries are home to me.  My favourite place in school and university was always the library.  The public library saw me, my sister, and my brother every Saturday, trading our piles of borrowed books for new piles of borrowed books.  Even through summer holidays, I never missed my weekly exchange of old words for new.

I love reading and writing and daydreaming in the library, but a library is more than a physical creation space.  A library gives me heart and mind space.  For me, a library is an entire universe of thought and imagination.  Every book on the shelves is a star, a planet, a solar system all its own where I can live if I choose.  I and my imagination have joyous permission and example from every writer whose books live on these shelves.  Their ideas and words whisper to me, “Come and play.”

I never say no to this invitation.  I know magic arises every time I say yes.

Sometimes I need a creation space wider than my studio and my single imagination.  Sometimes I need to connect with other imaginations.  A library is a space of all possibility.  Wandering along the shelves in the public library, I introduce myself to new-to-me writers and new-to-me ideas.  We connect, and my world expands.  What I thought was possible becomes infinite.

Yes, libraries, I love you.  Thank you for your gifts of infinite creation space and magic.

 

 

Threads of Joy (Upsy-Daisy Part Two)

letmemendheart
Let Me Mend Your Broken Heart

I learned to sew in High School, Grade Eight.

The first thing I learned was the basting stitch, an easy up and down of needle and thread through two layers of sky blue gingham cloth that would eventually become an apron.

The basting stitch was simple.  All it required was attention to keeping the stitches balanced in length so the layers of cloth held firmly to each other.  The thread I used was a vivid red, deliberate contrast to the colour of the gingham.  It was easy to see what had already been stitched, and what now needed my needle, thread, and attentive eyes.

I am thinking of my Dad, and how he taught me to find threads of joy and use them to stitch my days together.

It was my heart and all my senses he taught me to use, rather than needle and thread.

Every day, as I grew up, I stitched firm the colours of morning clouds and wild sunsets.

Every summer I stitched the feel of my bare feet on wet sand as the tide went out.  I stitched the smell of thick earth under the trees when August afternoons were hottest and I found the deepest shade.

I stitched into my life the smooth, cold taste of chocolate ice cream for dessert after supper.  Two round scoops each for me and my sister, one scoop for our brother who was much younger than us and still sat in the high chair next to Mom.

Every night I stitched the quiet sounds of my Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen after we three were in bed, stories read, blankets and teddy bears tucked around us, kisses on our cheeks.

Here in my life now, I stitch each day together against the grey grief that threatens to pull me apart.  I stitch, with careful attention, the threads of joy my Dad taught me to find and choose.  Vivid colours, lengths of joy and love sewn to balance sadness, to hold me firm.