by Naomi | Dec 23, 2014 | Creative Life
A few years ago, I made a decision that changed my life. Even though I had a BFA in Theatre Arts and was pursuing an MFA in Writing for Children, I felt like someone pretending to be an artist. All around me, highly creative people produced inspired work. I was the ugly step-sister craftsperson. I worked hard, sure, but I was also too careful, too structured. While my work was adequate, lightning wasn’t striking.
I’d hit my natural ceiling. Without drastic action, I wasn’t going to grow. The moment that actually pushed me over the edge was an editor reading my manuscript and telling me, “You’re not writing what you need to be writing. This story is well-written, sure, but you–you’re not in here.”
Why was being an artist so important to me? To me, living life as an artist meant risking asking the big questions. It meant stretching to my outer limits and beyond. It meant seeking truth in the hopes of shining light for others. My role models, Madeleine L’Engle and C.S. Lewis, had both done this with their work. Their fiction and nonfiction had reached out of the pages of their books and challenged me to live a bigger, a more meaningful, life. No one could guarantee that my work would have this significance, I knew. However, if I only dipped my toe into the creative ocean and never dared to dive in, well… my work would never have more than toe-dip impact.
At the time, I was writing my creative thesis on the importance of play in the creative process. I’d been approaching this task intellectually, squishing every last bit of fun out of my play. I was trying to force myself to act like an artist, all the time becoming less and less inspired. So, I wrote to my graduate advisor and announced, “I’m going to write a play, a hero’s journey, about my process of learning how to play. I’m going to start now.”
She responded: “Cool!” and then, “Are you sure it will work?” I wasn’t, to be honest. But I assured her it would. In the end, committing to the process was what made it work. I wrote the play and produced it. Through the process of journaling, shaping the story, rehearsing with the cast, creating costumes, sets and choreography, composing music, and learning how to edit video, I battled some of my deepest challenges: perfectionism, the need for control, and the search for my unique voice in the sea of creative voices in the world, to name a sampling.
After the play ended, though, I felt at odds. I’d been engaging with life in a new way, but after we finished the production, I slipped back into life as usual. My old habits returned, stomping down those fresh shoots of artistry that had started to sprout.
Fast forward to December 2014. My inbox was being bombarded with offerings of goal-setting courses and books. I watched some of the videos and listened to two very insightful books, The One Thing by Gary Keller and Essentialism by Greg McKeown. I went through Donald Miller’s Creating Your Life Plan. As pieces fell in place, I realized I needed a practice that combined the inner work I needed to do with my outer goals, work and otherwise. We are not simply what we do, but what we focus our energy on day in and day out can’t help but affect who we become.
What I needed was a new hero’s journey. So, I made another decision. I decided to try a hero’s journey experiment this year. I’m going to share some thoughts along the way here, on my blog, because I know a travelogue can often help a traveler experience sights and experiences on a deeper level. Perhaps my travels will inspire you to ask a new question or to try an experiment of your own. We’ll see what happens together.
Here’s how I’m setting out.
I put together a journal in which I reviewed key successes from last year, as well as habits and thinking I need to let go. I added pages where I can map out the journey and take notes along the way for each stage. One tool I knew I’d need was a symbol to help me transition from stage to stage. I bought small coins, and plan to drop each into a fountain or wishing well as I say goodbye to one stage and hello to the next. Also, to keep myself open to the possibilities, I’m collecting one thought per day in my hero’s journey book. For instance, when I’m Listening for the Call, I’ll write down one word or phrase per day. Then, when I come to the end of the month and am ready to Cross the Threshold, I can review the cards to see what pattern emerges from the sum of those days.
I started, of course, with Ordinary Life. What does that mean? I’ve been working on noticing where I am, right here and now. I’ve been organizing and decluttering my spaces, making room for whatever might be coming next. Another focus has been on building healthy habits such as exercise and blocking off regular time for writing. I’ve been practicing saying no, when appropriate.
I’m planning on tossing my first coin into a fountain around January 1. Then, it will be time to start Listening for the Call. I can’t help but believe that something extraordinary might show up. In any case, I know that by committing to the journey, I am engaging with life. I’m living the artist’s life.
by Naomi | Sep 3, 2014 | Creative Life
One of the most daunting challenges I’ve faced as a writer is to write about my faith. I always insisted I wouldn’t do it, and when I was asked directly to write about faith, I did so with fear and trembling, and even then, only through the lens of fiction. When one has been brought up to believe there is a fundamental right and a fundamental wrong, no matter how much one grows spiritually, it is impossible to overcome the fear that one will say the wrong thing. The voices never stop: You might get it wrong, and what then?
These voices are crippling, particularly when eternity is in question. When one has learned from the very earliest age that faith is the one thing you must not get wrong… there’s the rub. If you get it wrong, it’s not just death on the line. But how is one supposed to get it right if one can’t discuss, ask questions, reflect, ponder?
Girl at the End of the World is a bold, brave book, one that challenged and inspired me, one that brought up deep questions. I want to thank Elizabeth Esther for having the courage to write about her experiences and about her continued search for answers, even though she hasn’t yet figured everything out yet. I’m inspired to dig deep myself, to try to shine some light in those places where fear reigns.
I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review.
by Naomi | Jul 15, 2014 | Creative Life
I just read a post by Michael Hyatt about the way that balance feels. You should read it, too.
Michael wrote that when one is balancing on a rope, one doesn’t feel balanced. Instead, one is constantly noticing what is off-balance and adjusting. When I read his words, my stomach did that strange swoop thing it does when I’m walking on any narrow object. Yes, I thought. Absolutely. No wonder the very people who intentionally seek balance always feel off-course. The only way to stay balanced to be aware of what’s out of balance. I’ve written frequently about finding balance through adjusting expectations. When we have a realistic picture of our lives, grounded in the facts of our given circumstances, only then can we make needed adjustments.
Last weekend, I spent time with alumni from Hamline’s MFA program. The question came up: How do writers find a work-life balance? For writers, finding balance is particularly hard. We are passionate about sitting down at the page and setting down words. We must do this for our mental and spiritual health. Yet, writing is such a quiet, personal thing, that it can appear like doing nothing. Sometimes the people in our life point this fact out, asking us to drive them to the airport or help pack for a move instead. For me, though, the biggest obstacle is myself. Daily, I struggle to remember that my writing is important, that it matters, and that giving myself the time to write isn’t selfish. I’m giving myself time to be me. Wouldn’t I passionately defend such time for anyone else?
So, here is the reality. We aren’t finding balance. We are actively balancing. It’s a verb, not a noun, and one one that evokes a visceral, gut-level sensation. Balancing isn’t a warm glow the way happiness is–That’s where we run into trouble. We expect balance to feel soft and airy, the way one might feel after an intense yoga session. Balance is a jolt, a shock of electricity, an instinctual reaction built into our DNA. We may long for balance that feels calm and settled, but instead, we must adjust our expectations. Balance is aware of itself. It is an ongoing, active process, full of experimentation, strategy and practice.
What if instead of asking, “How do I find a work-life balance?” we asked, “Where am I leaning too heavily? What adjustments might I make to right myself today?” The more specific the answers, I think, the better. No need to be overly ambitious about fixing one’s whole life. Tomorrow, we may be out of balance in a completely other way. This task is one that can’t be checked off the to-do list. We must engage in balance every day.
Balance is individual, but in the same way that stories deal in specifics, the particulars of others’ solutions can clear our own murky waters. So, what are you doing today to adjust and find balance? I’d love to hear your thoughts below.
photo credit: Jeff Pang via photopin cc
by Naomi | May 28, 2014 | Creative Life
When you set out to do something, truly commit, you can’t have any idea what’s around the corner. That’s the beauty of a journey, I suppose, maybe even the reason for a journey. We want to strike out into new territory for better or worse. We want to grow.
If you’ve been reading along these past few months, you know I’ve set out on a Hero’s Journey, and that about a month ago, I transitioned from the first stage of Ordinary Life to the stage of Listening for the Call. Some practices I intended to put in place in order to listen included yoga and a specific kind of prayer called Lectio Divina, a prayer that acknowledges the need for silence and listening after reflecting on sacred words.
I have started working with these practices, but what has overshadowed this month more than anything was the sudden death of my aunt. Listening hasn’t been about holding practices out at an arms length. I’d been thinking of listening as a quiet, settled activity, one that would allow me to breathe deep and soak in some kind of capital T truth. Or some kind of capital Q quest. Listening hasn’t been anything like that this month.
It started with a phone call when my husband and I were out for dinner. My phone didn’t ring, but I saw a message pop up from my mom, unusual for a Friday night. Unusual enough that I listened to the message, and from the sound of her voice urging me to call tonight or tomorrow, I knew I needed to call right then. Listen.
I called and she told me the news about my aunt. It was a month and a day after my uncle, another of my mom’s siblings, had passed away. She assured me that all would be okay, and yet I heard underneath that she needed me. My upcoming week was full of preparation for a full-school musical I was directing, but when I sat down to tell my husband the news, he asked, “Do you need to go home?” Listen.
Yes, I needed to go home, right away. The next morning, I woke up early and was on the road, driving to Portland as the sun rose. Friends and colleagues covered me so I could be with my family. On Sunday, Mother’s Day, I felt the tiniest of nudges: Go for a walk. Go to the Gorge. Listen.
My mom and I went for a walk to get coffee, and we talked the whole way. After taking care of a little more business, we went to the Columbia Gorge and watched water pour off cliffs, mist filling the air with energy, freshness, life. We were on the edge that day, so close to death and so aware of the life around us, the beauty just waiting to be noticed. Had I been home, I’d probably have been fretting over the musical or the multitude of other details about life. Listen.
After a few days, I came back home and dove in to help finish the show. A little less than a week later, I stood in the auditorium watching the kids take their bows, and then the auditorium burst into song, singing to me. Happy Birthday. Listen.
I’ve been struggling to name the call, to wrap my mind around something that is so simple it’s difficult to label. It’s the starkness of seeing what’s left when a life ends, and yet tasting the richness of being present, of seeing one’s work right here, right now. What am I being called to do? What is the work of this journey?
One could call it many things. Settling into my skin. Being Naomi. Becoming an artist. It’s definitely not about working harder or accomplishing more. The call is about how I life my life, not about what I do so much as about who I am. Maybe once I set off on this journey, the call will crystalize, become even more clear. I like the word “becoming.” For the past ten years, I’ve worn a butterfly ring, a symbol of the process of transforming, a life theme for me. I think I’ll set out with that word in mind.
I’ve also realized I need a ritual, some kind of marker to help myself pass from stage to stage. It’s hard to know when one stage is done and when the next is ready to begin. I do think it’s been the right choice not to force each phase to last a month. Some will be shorter and some longer. That’s only natural. However, a tangible act is needed to mark the passage. Were I on a real journey, I might mark the path with a special rock, or write what I’ve learned on a paper and toss it into my bonfire. Probably I’d keep one copy, too, so as to keep track of what had come before. Maybe I can find some kind of replica of this in my real, everyday life, since I’m not hiking trails or cooking by bonfire each night. Something will come to me, I’m sure. And then, I’ll move through the next stage, Crossing the Threshold into… who knows. Whatever it is, I know it will give me opportunity to grow, to notice the richness of life, to be fully present right now. Listen. Each moment matters.
photo credit: Alaskan Dude via photopin cc
by Naomi | May 8, 2014 | Creative Life
So yesterday, I set out to listen. Here’s some highlights:
– A friend emailed me with the perfect link, encouraging me to think about slow work. I love what Micha Boyett has to say in this post and am looking forward to reading her book, Found, too. I’ve been looking for a book just like this, one that helps me slow my rhythm and re-center my focus.
– I couldn’t get my audio book to work while I drove into work, so I ended up driving in silence, listening to the wind and the cars rushing by and the sounds inside my car and my own thoughts. In the quiet, calm settled over me. Some words I had recently read from Happier at Home by Gretchen Rubin came to mind: The days are long, but the years are short. Yes. There was plenty of time in my day, and yet, I needed to enjoy each moment of the day because it would be too easy to let it slip by.
– Then, when I showed up for a wild rehearsal with tons of kids at the elementary school, one of the young actors ran up to me with a tupperware filled with cupcakes–vanilla, my favorite-and one of them sported a white chocolate Flat Stanley on top to match the theme of our play. She’d stayed up late and made cupcakes just to thank me for my work with her and her classmates. We shared them after the rehearsal… and I felt a gentle nudge. Notice. Listen. Soak this in.
– When working with one of my students, we were looking for the perfect word. Turns out the word required was “peculiar.” Except neither of us could say the word without getting tongue tied. I tried, and couldn’t. Then he tried, and couldn’t. Then, the babysitter across the room chimed in and couldn’t say it either. We were all laughing out loud and the sound was a drink of fresh water. Exhaustion exited the room and energy bubbled up. Again, I felt that nudge. Notice. Listen. Soak this in.
– Then, this morning, I had an email from one of my Inklings instructors, Helen Pyne, who blogged about how much she learns and is inspired in her work with young writers. Again, the nudge. This is why I do what I do. This is why all the hard work matters. Not just to me, or to the students, but also to our instructors and every single other person it touches.
Our world is busy and chaotic and filled with noise. Often, I’m tempted to add to the noise, to try to shout over everyone and be heard. But why? Don’t I actually want to be part of a grand patchwork, to play my unique part? To both inspire a creative girl and enjoy her gift of amazingly inventive cupcakes? To open doors between writers and young writers to allow them to find inspiration and joy? The connections we make person to person are truly the thing.
And this, after just one day of listening. I’m looking forward to what I’ll hear today.
A few years ago, I made a decision that changed my life. Even though I had a BFA in Theatre Arts and was pursuing an MFA in Writing for Children, I felt like someone pretending to be an artist. All around me, highly creative people produced inspired work. I was the ugly step-sister craftsperson. I worked hard, sure, but I was also too careful, too structured. While my work was adequate, lightning wasn’t striking.
She responded: “Cool!” and then, “Are you sure it will work?” I wasn’t, to be honest. But I assured her it would. In the end, committing to the process was what made it work. I wrote the play and produced it. Through the process of journaling, shaping the story, rehearsing with the cast, creating costumes, sets and choreography, composing music, and learning how to edit video, I battled some of my deepest challenges: perfectionism, the need for control, and the search for my unique voice in the sea of creative voices in the world, to name a sampling.
I put together a journal in which I reviewed key successes from last year, as well as habits and thinking I need to let go. I added pages where I can map out the journey and take notes along the way for each stage. One tool I knew I’d need was a symbol to help me transition from stage to stage. I bought small coins, and plan to drop each into a fountain or wishing well as I say goodbye to one stage and hello to the next. Also, to keep myself open to the possibilities, I’m collecting one thought per day in my hero’s journey book. For instance, when I’m Listening for the Call, I’ll write down one word or phrase per day. Then, when I come to the end of the month and am ready to Cross the Threshold, I can review the cards to see what pattern emerges from the sum of those days.
