Walking the Spiral Path

She gets uncomfortable at the thought of spiritual rules. I understand. It's not that life doesn't benefit from rules; it's just that rules can also become ends in themselves, eventually choking off life.

In regards to artists, Julia Cameron puts it this way, "We insist on a straight and narrow when the Artist's Way is a spiral path." Pushing it further she notes, "An artist cannot replicate a prior success indefinitely. Those who attempt to work too long with formulas, even their own formula, eventually leach themselves of their creative truths."

The result, says Cameron, is that we "sink to the bottom and die." Put another way, "A certain deep artistic weariness sets in. We must summon our enthusiasm... instead of reveling in each day's creative task."

I wonder if Cameron's observations about artists can be applied to spirituality. Is it possible that rules and formulas eventually leach us of vitality and interest? If so, I'd prefer to walk a spiral path.

The Art of Moving

It was a snap decision. I looked up the details on their website, dialed a number, left a message for Connie.

When I told a friend about my intentions, I said I had just decided "yes" last night, after Connie called me back.

But maybe I had been wanting this for a long time. I've been on an Art Pilgrimage and the thought has crossed my mind that sometime this art might need to move to my body. Maybe I would need to learn what it is to be a dancer.

Reading The Artist's Way, I remembered (as Julia asked me to) what I had always wanted to do as a child. I remembered that if life had been different I could have continued the ballet class my grandmother paid for (and I went to only for a short time). I remembered that I have always wanted to feel the air with my fingertips and toes, in just this way.

So I called Connie. And she said, "Come."

I did. Today.

First position. Second. Third. I remembered these. I watched. I tried. For long moments I was completely lost. I know some French, but not the ballet teacher's words that tell me what to do. At some point it occurred to me that, yes, there is a sequence. Everything to the front, now to the side, then to the back. I found little ways in, even as I got lost along the way.

"Move like a queen," she said. "Majestic."

Okay. I will never be a dancer among dancers. But I can pretend, just for a while, to be a queen.

A Date Long Due

Yesterday I was alone.

I considered feeling lonely.

Then I decided I had better things to do.

I went on a date.

With myself.

First I tried to find a park I'd heard about. I couldn't find it. I ended up in a nursing home parking lot, overlooking the river. I parked in the sun. It was too hot, but I put my seat back and I took a nap. When I woke, I pulled out of the drive and noticed these seeds. Of course I had to get out of the car and take time to explore them.




Not to be defeated in my search for the elusive park, I eventually sort of found it. Except I couldn't find my way by road. So I left the car in a strange empty lot near the highway, and I walked. I found this tunnel. It was sweet to listen to the echo of two voices at the other end— friends hiding from the sun, maybe hiding in each other on this warm afternoon.




At the end of the tunnel, I saw wild roses. I love the way light infuses petals.




The park was smaller than I'd hoped, and crowded. I moved on to another park. As it turned out, it was crowded too. People with people with people. I went alone to a shady hill and listened to all their sounds. I listened to the birds. Closed my eyes, napped again, sat and dreamed, wrote. I pointed my camera towards the river, then towards the sky and enjoyed my time with them, with me.



Sunday photos by L.L. Barkat.

Going Bookless

All right. I did it. I went bookless for the week.

Cameron wanted me to do it. She said I would probably balk. She was right.

What was I supposed to do in lieu of reading? She suggested knitting (I used to do that; I find it tedious now), gardening, playing an instrument, and other things I can't remember. She promised I would find something important. I'm not sure about that. Though sometimes it takes a while to discover what has just happened in our soul unawares.

I did find two fire poems which I have been looking for a really long time (one still stashed away, waiting for the collaborative touch of Kelly Langner Sauer.) I found my guitar (again... I seem to lose track of it over and over, but I wanted something to put my voice to, so I found my guitar). I played piano, cleaned (a lot, a lot and can't believe how much I could still do if I were so inclined; if you are reading this, RM, know that I am terribly jealous of your clean, peaceful house :)

Mostly I found permission.

Reading is something I often feel compelled to do. It's even part of my job (I did read a little here and there on-line, but I curbed it as much as possible). It felt freeing to know I wasn't allowed to read, as much as it bugged me too (how many times did I reach for a book, then just sit down on my bed and do nothing, while I tried to re-envision who I am through what I do?)

I didn't much like going bookless. Yet I did find those things I may not have otherwise found. So I'm thinking I might do this again sometime.

Right after I read a few good books.

Whimsy at My Feet

Did I tell you about my purple toe nails?

I painted them dark pearly purple.

When I kick off my slippers at night, I swing my feet at the edge of the bed. And I look at my whimsical purple nails.

Cameron says that when we go through The Artist's Way, we'll see changes in ourselves. We might clean out our closets (hey, I did that already! How did she know?) Still, she forgot to tell me about the nail polish. I am SO not a nail polish kind of girl. But this seemed right. A private indulgence. An odd beauty, like keeping irises in the closet and not caring that no one can see them.

Is this why God made iridescent sea creatures that creep around the ocean floor, making the dark beautiful to no one in particular? If God were a girl like me, sitting at the edge of the bed, would God choose a lick of purple polish too?


Candles at 56 Irving Place photo by L.L. Barkat.

3rd Date

This past week... was like one long Artist's Date. Airports and snow at one end of the date... airports and sun-going-down at the other end.

New York, Pittsburgh. Beaver Falls.

A chapel with 1300(?) students, listening (and not :) to my thoughts on Ash Wednesday. An inn with a golden, long-haired dog named Roo (and me with too much black wool clothing to keep hair-free).

Doors, paths, walkways. Rooms, tables, dishes. Lamps, fireplaces, gatherings. Poems, lots of poems. And poets. More than you would think.

It will take time to trace and retrace, to understand. For now, I am simply, beautifully overwhelmed with the gifts. And excited by the unwrapping to come.


Geneva College Library Door photo, by L.L. Barkat.

2nd Date

I am almost sure this doesn't count as a date. Cameron said nothing about going in, just about going out— to shops, parks, museums, roads not taken.

But I called it a date. Maybe I was just trying to cheer myself for a chore. But maybe not. Can we go in for an Artist's date?

I went into my dark wooden dresser, into my closet. I tossed a light green shirt that was stained and worn, but before I tossed it, I used it to dust the edge of the drawer. I tossed a scrap of packaging (what was it doing in there?) and a black racer t-shirt that had a lot (a lot!) of holes in it. I threw away an old coral-colored sleeveless mock turtleneck. I liked the tone of that shirt, but it wasn't so great on me; why did I wear it just because someone gave it to me as her hand-me-down?

The closet was equally full of questions. Why did I wear the red wool blazer cut too full, pink embroidered "nice-girl" sweater and the white embroidered one that, frankly, always seemed to have two flowers like bulls-eyes in exactly the wrong place? What of the pastel yellow suit and the taupe one? Bad colors both, at least for me. And designs that either overpowered or muted.

I threw away everything I'd never liked, everything too stained, everything I was pretending about. I saved some white t-shirts, because sometimes my girls ask for an old one to make over.

I didn't have to walk very far to go on this date. It was warm inside, while the snow was falling outside (is still). Can I tell you one of my favorite parts of the date?

...pulling the little chain that shuts off the "candle" light in my closet, and closing the door.

First Date

I am supposed to take my Artist Child on dates. I can't remember. Are they supposed to be 2 hours in length? Mine was 34 minutes. A walk down the hill, to the 5-and-dime store to buy a notebook for my "morning pages" (that's something else I'm supposed to do, every morning... three pages of long-hand writing... what an indulgence!).

I bought three notebooks, red, and I'm looking for the perfect pen. I noted that when I signed the credit card slip, I liked that pen, but I'd already bought a different kind. I wrote the signing-pen model down in my red notebook, on the way out of the store. My hands were shaking, like it was the most important thing in the world, to write this down. Maybe I will come back next week, in search of fluidity and the just-right feel between my fingers.

Was my date a success or a failure, or something in between? Why do I feel the need to judge it.

Here is what I noticed along the way. Plastic sprinkle cover, blue ribbon strangling the end of a popped balloon (no, I am making that up... I think the balloon was gone... I think I make things up like this... why do I make things up), a $50 lottery ticket...tattered (I assume not a winner), leaves on a bush... looking coppery and flat like pennies crushed in those machines you can pay money to crush pennies in, a white plastic spoon (I cannot just walk... I force myself to remember... why must I always make myself work even when I'm supposedly at play?)

The sidewalks are broken, snow gone ('til tomorrow... I hear a woman on a cell phone "biggest Nor-easter, supposed to start tonight and last through tomorrow")... snow will come and bury the sprinkle cover, the flat penny leaves, the $50 lottery ticket and its losses, the white spoon, a lone tissue and a ragged styrofoam cup ripped in half.

What makes an Artist Date a success? Does it matter? I went, didn't I. Wasn't that the hardest part. Even if I did buy chocolates and stickers for the girls (goodness, it's almost Valentine's Day). Is it okay to do things for other people when I'm out on a date with me?

Trail

For a while now, I've been sitting on a big rock by a lake. Figuratively speaking, of course. Just watching the snow tip the branches, marveling over little birds snatching red berries, dropping them onto the ice. The ice crackles, and I sit. Nowhere to go in particular.

The other day, a friend recommended I take a look at The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. I've taken a look before: not interested.

But, you know, I've been sitting on this rock just kind of drifting through the days, so what the heck. Why not crack open a book to keep me company.

It's a scary book, in my opinion. It's asking me to get back on the trail, with me in mind. All my don't-you-be-selfish antennae are up, ready to stop this new leg of the journey before I start. It feels safer to stay on my big rock, watch the birds stealing bird-berries.

But, you know, the sun feels different these days. Warmer. (In real life, not just this imaginary place I'm rambling about.) So I'm thinking, what could it hurt? Spring is nipping at winter's heels in real life (don't let the snow fool you... the sun is warmer... can you feel it?), so maybe I could let it woo me onto a new trail.

I'm on a pilgrimage after all. Let's see where this trail might lead...

---

"Creativity is like crabgrass— it springs back with the simplest of care." Julia Cameron

"Every blade of grass has its Angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'" The Talmud