The Accidental Artist
This afternoon I threw a pile of cushions into the corner of my room
and accidentally created the coziest nook for reading and writing.
Sometimes I think that’s how the creative process works.
We are all creative, it’s just about realizing it.
We have all heard people say, “I’m not creative,” and excuse themselves
from living in vibrant color.
I’m here in this space to humbly say
that all you need is the desire to work.
For some, the channels of creative energy are large and hard to close.
For others, the gates are rusty and heavy
but they can be moved and once they are
the torrential need to create shouldn’t be stopped.
When I’m feeling my most authentically creative I don’t have to push
but when I’m pushing it, I do not often notice my fakeness.
I’m learning to be in the flow and it’s going to take a lifetime but luckily
that’s just how much time I have.
Do you guys like TED Talks? I don’t watch TV these days, just these little nuggets of wisdom. This is worth a watch if you are an artist, want to be an artist or believe you aren’t creative. Here is Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love, giving a talk on “Your Elusive Creative Genius” (Link, excerpt below):
I had this encounter recently where I met the extraordinary American poet Ruth Stone, who’s now in her 90s, but she’s been a poet her entire life and she told me that when she was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out working in the fields, and she said she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. And she said it was like a thunderous train of air. And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape. And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet. She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point, and that was to, in her words, “run like hell.” And she would run like hell to the house and she would be getting chased by this poem, and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. And other times she wouldn’t be fast enough, so she’d be running and running and running, and she wouldn’t get to the house and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it and she said it would continue on across the landscape, looking, as she put it “for another poet.” And then there were these times — this is the piece I never forgot — she said that there were moments where she would almost miss it, right? So, she’s running to the house and she’s looking for the paper and the poem passes through her, and she grabs a pencil just as it’s going through her, and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail, and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. And in these instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact but backwards, from the last word to the first.