Creativity

This Canvas Upon Which We Paint.

I have a Van Gogh print hanging in the house; “The Starry Night” – one of my favorites. In the swirling depths of paint Van Gogh captures the unique experience of nature and that it inspires.

Does it follow form? Not at all – though, it is mesmerizing nonetheless. And painted completely from memory, a view from the artist’s asylum window.

Under the same circumstances, most would fall into a place of desperation and fear; their worlds limited by these factors of the unknown. Yet, here the master stood forming a view of the cosmos yet unexplored.

Each of us is an artist in our own right, with wild, swirling brushstrokes illuminating a once forsaken sky. And, yielding these glorious panels of interpretation -a blending of shadows and light.

“Thanks to the art,” Marcel Proust writes, “instead of seeing one world only, our own, we see that world multiply itself and we have at our disposal as many worlds as there are original artists.”

You are those many artists, my loves – and this world a canvas for all mediums.

In peace, my sweet friends ~ thank you for your patience during my convalescence.

Namaste ❤

On Fireflies Carrying Their Light to the Moon.

I remember once watching a meteor shower with my Dad. “Like wilds horses,” he said. “across the heavens.”

To this day, I can’t help but to see those stallions galloping towards freedom – I dare say, a little imagination goes a long, long way.

It’s those stories, now – wouldn’t you say? Those little pockets of inspired ingenuity which provide a little more ‘color’ to life’s palette.

“Imagination,” shares author, Ray Bradbury “should be the center of your life.”

Come to think of it, I recall yet another story about the fireflies carrying their light to the moon. “If you catch them, how will we ever find our way home?”

To this day, I won’t hesitate to knock a mason jar out of a ‘fire’ hunter’s hands.

My goodness, how these stories find us – revealing themselves at a moment when they’re needed most of all.

Reminding us, that our lives are a magical weaving of that which we’ve always dreamed of.

Let your imagination find you today, my loves – for once, let your heart take flight.

When Less Means So Much More.

[blockquote source=”Natalie Babbitt”]“Like all magnificent things, it’s very simple.”[/blockquote]

I still remember my very first day of elementary school. I had spent weeks looking forward to this day – my mind spilling with the excitement of yet another brand new adventure.

My mother, an artist, had taken such great care to send me with only the very best of supplies – to include, a hand-stitched red stocking hat and a brand new box of 16 Crayola crayons.

The bus ride seemed to last forever. With every stop, I fidgeted impatiently. “Why must they walk so slowly?” The anticipation was nearly overwhelming, and…against my mother’s sternest of warnings, I pulled out that box and opened it.

The colors were so magnificent – mulberry and mint and a crisp shade of violet-blue. I ran my fingers of their ‘sharpened’ wax tips, imagining all the masterpieces I had yet to create.

I was like a child at Christmas waiting for Art Class to ‘arrive.’

9:56…9:57…then, finally, 10 o’clock!

I raced through my desk, eager to show off my newest acquisition. “My mom makes art,” I had rehearsed these words so many times over again in my head. I mean, with so many magnificent colors, I was certain that my artwork would be the best in town.

Until I looked around, and saw…that on every single desk surrounding me was a much larger box of 64.

I must say, I felt a bit betrayed. I mean, how could my mother has missed such a thing? She always took such great care in making sure we had all that was needed.

I watched as the others drew such bold scenes. Rainbows with indigo, and clouds traced with blizzard blue. Why, even the little girl sitting next to me drew a sun with 5 different colors.

With just 16 sad little colors, how could I ever compete?

I could hardly hold back the tears, as I walked through our kitchen door. The ‘masterpiece’ I’d created earlier had been relegated to the very bottom of my book bag. I was simply too embarrassed to share it with my mother, ‘the artist.’

I must have cried for at least an hour before my mother entered my room – in her hand, the uncrumpled drawing I had so desperately tried to destroy.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a tree more magnificent than this,” she smiled as tears formed in her eyes. You see, what I had assumed might be destined for the trash, was – for my mother – the greatest expression of love.

And, it had absolutely nothing to do with the number of crayons I had used to create it.

You see, love comes from within, my darlings…and creativity, is an expression of our joy.

“I believe that we are all creative beings and that no matter what you’ve been told – you were placed here on this earth to create something of value to the world. Something that will help others break free, something that lights you up with passion and something that is larger than just you.” – Mastin Kipp

That little tree, in all of its simplicity, had the capacity to transform my mother’s whole world.

Because, my dearest darlings…in art, as it is in life…sometimes less is more.

The Yes Book is Here!

My goodness, I’m so excited to be part of this magnificent project – and, can you believe after all this hard work, it’s finally here?

They say, “in the space between yes and no, there is a lifetime. It’s the difference between the path you walk and one you leave behind.”

Indeed, for how often do we mutter the words – while leaving our heart behind?

In what is soon becoming the breakthrough inspirational book of the year, seventy-two award winning authors (myself included) share their stories of transformation and hope, the challenge of life-changing decisions, and the magic of Yes in everyday life.

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Buy your copy today!

Storytellers breathe Yes through the life of their characters.

Poets extol the power of Yes in love and loss. Spiritual teachers reveal the secret of Yes in the heart.

Neurologist Dr. Newberg explains how using the word Yes physically changes the chemistry of the brain.

Exult Road is excited to announce the publication of “The Yes Book,” compiled and edited by Jill Cooper—a marvelous anthology of literary expression, and testimony to the transformative power of our most human spirit.

In this piece, entitled “Born to Soar” author and Yes Book contributor Tara Lemieux shares her inspirational journey, in learning to say ‘yes, once again. The full text of this lovely piece will be featured in The Yes Book.

The accompanying musical composition, “Soar” has been lovingly crafted, and graciously shared by musician Gary Talbott.

The Yes Book published by Exult Road will be available in the Fall of 2014. Reserve your copy now! exultroad.com

Please join us in our celebration of YES!

And, tell me please – what does YES mean to you?

Preserving the Heart of the Child Artist Inside.

[blockquote source=”Pablo Picasso”]”Every child is an artist. The problem is staying an artist when you grow up.” [/blockquote]-

Indeed, my darlings – how to preserve that spirit of innocence, when all our world seems crushing in.

To believe beyond all shadows of doubt, that this life – is indeed limitless.

When we are young, we paint the sky every brilliant color known to man – a hint of ‘Sunset’, a dapple of ‘Burnt Orange’, and every Blue from ‘Indigo’ to ‘Cerulean’. Never mind the matching of hues, what we *felt inside* became our universe.

That’s the very thing artist Pablo Picasso wished, that every child remain – in spirit – an indomitable force of artistry.

“Ideas are simply starting points.” he began. “I can rarely set them down as they come to my mind. As soon as I start to work, others well up in my pen. To know what you’re going to draw, you have to *begin* drawing. What I capture in spite of myself interests me more than my own ideas.”

My darlings, when we were much younger – we drew without the burden of reason. And, never knowing what these colors might reveal – until the last pop of ‘Razzmatazz’ completed our picture.

Every child is an artist, my dears – and the energy of this child artist is always within.

When we allow ourselves to….just begin.

I’m going out to pick up a box of Crayolas today. Now, who will be joining me today?

Let’s come back and post our drawings here 🙂

Much love, my dearest darlings ~ <3

What If I Forget How to Write?

Reprinted: October 2012

Sometimes I have the silliest of fears.

It started quite innocently with a monster under the bed—but as I grew older these thoughts grew bigger as well.

Today, I was worried that I might someday forget forever how to write.

I mean, what if tomorrow all of this inspiration was gone? And, what if these words just stopped flowing along?

I suppose it’s a panic that every writer feels from time to time—and every once and again that one day this magnificent gift of inspiration might just suddenly and forever disappear.

It reminded me of the very first time I brought my newborn son home from the hospital. He had such a rough first few days living in this brand new world—locked away in the farthest corner of a dimly lit Neonatal ICU. And I, a new mother, and not yet knowing what to do, spent every single moment, of every waking hour, slipping my fingers through that tangled mess of wires just to simply touch his hand.

And, when that day finally came, when I was able to bring my baby home—I was overwhelmed with gratitude at this gift of a most precious human life—that I literally spent every single night of those first few months sleeping with my fingers resting gently on his tiny little chest.

You see, I was so terrified that something might happen to snatch this gift away that I barely slept more than a few hours, if at all, with each passing evening.

It was the very first time I had faced the reality of impermanence—the impermanence of life and life’s most special moments.

Writing has become such a joy for me—that in some ways, I feel a bit like a new mother all over again…carefully protecting this amazing gift that has been so graciously shared with me.

And, when inspiration stops me dead in my tracks, urging me desperately to copy down these few short words before the magic of this thought is forever lost?

That’s when I find myself clinging intensely to that one thing I feel might soon be gone.

Perhaps, that is why I am here tonight with my fingers resting gently on inspiration’s chest?

And, as I look over to my son standing here next to me today, my heart is immediately calmed and my fears simply melt away. Because in him, I see all of the love and life’s lessons I’ve shared with him along this way, radiating brilliantly for all of this world to see. And in his eyes, I see a bit of my own spirit reflecting back to me.

Everywhere we turn we are faced with impermanence…but in some way, our spirit lingers on.

I just hope that mine may linger always through my words.

Discovering Our Voice Within.

“She withdrew onto herself,
First writing just for one,
Then touching thousands.
She incarnated ghosts, hurt, and joy
Into paper-and-ink stories of wonder.” – Deng Ming Dao

I’ve been feeling a little out of sorts lately; with body and mind settling into the abyss of ‘just slightly out of sync.’ It’s a desperate feeling, really – particularly for a writer who prides herself on being so intimately connected with her feelings.

And, so very distressing when it occurs, as it represents a dichotomy of monstrous proportions:

To hold onto the energy of the struggle, to live deliberately within it – that we ultimately become more aware of our ‘edges’,

or,

To release it immediately, that we may begin to slowly know the liberation of our pain.

With each, there is a choice, a unique path which only the soul may traverse. On one side, there is instantaneous relief – albeit, deceptively fleeting;

While farther off, over dusted trails and precarious terrain – there is this glimmering hope of awakening, and, the growing ember of possibility which may someday carry us forward.

Ironically, the choice is never easy, is it? Inevitably, we must acknowledge our willingness to stay – to reside in the uncertainty of the ‘what may happen next?’

How foolish we are to think it must be all or nothing. When, in fact, there must be room enough for both to grow. As, it is only through their contrast that we gain depth to our vision. The sharpness of jagged rocks, in time will yield to softer sands – but, only by way of the crashing waves.

This is the nature of our being – through ‘tortured’ heart we may begin to learn the true capacity of our human soul.

Each day we are presented with the callousness of our limits – intended to test, and hopefully, strengthen our resolve. But the road ahead is often littered with the scattered castings of doubt, forged by the insecurities we’ve held all these years.

To find the balance between the two ~ between the desperation of unknowing, and the thrill of unguarded discovery ~ my darlings, that is to have truly lived.

For somewhere in this balance we find our most authentic self – buried beneath the ashes of the fire which always burns.

And so, on this day, it is with gratitude, not trepidation, that I embrace these uncertainties… knowing that the true gift is somewhere in that ‘in between.’

My darlings, I write because I must – as it’s through these ‘oft jumbled words that I have discovered my voice within.

How Words May Find Me.

[blockquote source=”Maya Angelou”]There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you[/blockquote]

“You’re always on that darned phone,” he said, half-teasing but yet still with enough of a ‘poke.’

And, never once knowing the writer in me was once again caught up in the twirling magic of words.

It’s true, you know – I am always tapping away at my keyboard. To others, it may seem such a rude offense – but, it’s just the way I have always been.

In an instant, I am captivated by the simplest of images…transfixed by the story that has yet to have been told.

At times, I believe this to be my greatest blessing…and likewise, there are times it can be just a bit of a pain. Having to break away as soon as the moment strikes, and in order to make sure those words aren’t lost to the winds.

And just as a moth to a most brilliant flame, I am lost to my thoughts once again.

Sometimes, I wonder how these words may find me – with pen always ready in hand. But, always they are here to greet me each day.

They hide amongst the snow covered trees…

In the roughness of bark against the length of a great tree…

And, sometimes in a single drop of dew upon leaves…

These words always seem to find me… begging always, “Look at me! Look at me!”

Perhaps, they’ve traveled all of this way – to find that one human spirit with the patience to tell their stories?

Either way, I am so ever grateful to help these stories find their way through.

My dears, I wanted to share with you one of my most favorite letters – written by Robert Pirosh in 1934. Robert so very much loved words, that he left everything behind… for the simple honor of being a full time storyteller.

He used his gift to pen the following letter, which he then sent to all of the major motion picture studios in Hollywood. In a few weeks, he was interviewed by MGM and offered his first job as a junior writer.

It was there that he met another lover of words – Groucho Marx.

And the rest, is history.

For me, this letter is a testimony to the power of never giving up on one’s dreams.

I hope you enjoy…much love, my most beautiful friends.

[blockquote]Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave “V” words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land’s-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Robert Pirosh
385 Madison Avenue
Room 610
New York
Eldorado 5-6024″[/blockquote]

 

What If Renoir Had Listened?

“He has no talent at all, that boy! You, who are his friend, tell him, please, to give up painting.” ~ Édouard Manet speaking to Claude Monet, on Renoir’s incompetency.

When I was a little girl, my Mother used to take us each weekend to the Cleveland Art Museum. You see, she was an artist who wanted so very much to share with us her life’s inspiration. Sundays were always a day of rushed anticipation, stopping off just long enough to pick up my Grandfather – the Museum gardens, it seems, proved a fine place for a gentleman to enjoy his cigar, uninterrupted. Swisher Sweets were always his favorite.

In contrast, the stone marble hallways felt cold and uninviting to a child of my age. At just seven years old, I hadn’t yet understood the fuss – particularly, as I was constantly being hushed.

sigh…who brings a child to a SHOOSHING place?

In time, I grew to hate these outings – the bother of giving up my Sunday outside time, was just too much to ask of one little girl. Forced against all will, I gave quite the fight – foot dragging, and perfectly timed shrilly whines were my specialty.

Oh…and didn’t I make sure my disapproving scowl was fully visible inside my Mother’s rear view mirror?

How could I have ever possibly known then, just how very much this time would mean to me now?

To offset my upset, I used to race between the exhibit rooms – my shoes clomp-clomp stomping about in an unbridled protest against the Museum’s stifling decorum…my Mother’s “Just you wait ..” glare having no impact on the ‘little stinker’ part of my soul.

And then one Sunday, during my customary game of ‘chase tag’, it happened…I ran smack sharply into the grimacing growl of a rather large Museum Security Guard man.

“Doomed…,” I thought to myself…imagining a life looking outwards through the confinement of my bedroom and watching others at play.

I was too terrified to look up. Instead… I stared flatly to the floor, taking in the pattern of scuff marks along the sides of my well worn Hush Puppy shoes. I thought I was done for sure – my face growing hot under the exertion of keeping all those ‘big tears’ inside.

“She’s watching you,” he said…kneeling down, smiling and pointing to a painting of a little girl on the wall. And then, he winked and walked away.

He was pointing to Renoir’s painting, “Romain Lacaux” – a little girl, just like me, but with details so brilliantly painted that she nearly came to life on that canvas.

And her eyes…they really did follow me….as I watched, transfixed, and testing the view from every room angle.

From that moment on, I couldn’t wait to get to the Museum on Sundays…knowing that I had a ‘new friend’ waiting to watch me play.

Isn’t it amazing how quickly magic can be pulled from dread?

Each week, the Museum guard watched me standing before that painting – watching…wondering. Through the weeks, he took my hand, so to speak, to share with me the magic contained within all of the other pieces of art.

Why, did you know Monet was nearly blind when he painted his “Waterlillies”?

(whisper) “That’s what makes it so beautiful…”

And, the Knights in Shining Armor? Not so very tall, at all…

In time, the Museum became a place I very much adored – with never enough time to learn all of its secrets. I grew up in those exhibit halls, taking in the beauty that suddenly surrounded me – wanting so very much to learn of Creativity’s inspiration.

I think that’s what my Mother wanted all along.

And, the little girl on the wall? She’s still there, to this day – making friends with all the other little girls stomping through the halls.

And, I? I am so ever grateful to her for sharing this gift of perspective with me. As, I think perhaps, this may have been the very beginning of my ‘creative lifestyle.’

It wasn’t until years later that I learned, that Renoir was greatly discouraged from painting – considered, not nearly ‘good enough’ to keep up with the counterparts of his day.

Imagine, if Renoir would have listened…what a shame that would have been.

Why, a little girl might not ever have been stopped – just long enough for imagination to find her here.