Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 12

Is It True That Art Saves Us?

In the past year, I’ve had seven diagnostic tests (three routine), three blood tests, and my first dental filling. I’ve gone from one prescription to four, and I’ve changed vitamins, diet, and supplements so many times, I’ve lost track. All of this led to my first ever bout with anxiety. I feel like I’ve made so much progress in my attempts to “stay in the now,” but these experiences have all tested my resolve. I’ve often taken imaginary trips into a future of worst-case scenarios, and traveled back longingly to a time when I looked and felt better.

Thankfully, my doctors and I think we’ve figured out what was causing my symptoms, and I learned through all those tests that, for the most part, I’m incredibly healthy. But it’s hard to sleep well when you have impossibly small veins and are facing a blood draw in the morning. Or to feel calm while waiting for days for frightening test results. Or to be productive when you’re feeling exhausted and down.

And that’s what I missed the most, the spontaneous activity of my once-active and creative mind. I had my moments this past year when I rose to the occasion and delivered a great talk, sounded wise on a podcast, got my act together enough to donate a Little Free Library to a local community. But mostly I slowed way down during my one-year sabbatical and just tried to get well, body, mind, and soul.

The one thing I did keep up on consistently was these weekly blog posts. It became my favorite part of the week, writing these posts (and hearing your responses). Even in an off year, my soul still longed to create art and connection. It yearned to remember the beauty in the world and in humanity. It desired to celebrate the things that make us feel most alive, even on the days I just wanted to take to my bed. Art, as they say, saves us. When I lacked motivation or energy to do anything else, I still read novels and watched movies, escaping into the recognizable worlds of someone else’s imagination. I still went to the theater and listened to live music, even on the nights when I wondered if I had it in me to laugh or cry. I still listened to a poetry podcast and bought new art for my home. Bringing that beauty into my personal space lifted my spirits in profound ways.

So, I want to say thank you to the musicians, writers, artists, actors, poets, comedians, and speakers who knew they weren’t just making art for themselves, they were making it for their heartsick, lonely, scared, and still-hopeful fellow humans, whether those humans felt that way for a day or a year.

Recently, a former writing client of mine received copies of her first traditionally published book. She’s been working at her writing for many years and finally got her break. I couldn’t be prouder of the way she’s hung in there all this time, never giving up on her dream, always knowing on some level that her art mattered. And it does, more than she will ever know.

By Teresa R. Funke

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A Better Question Than “Are You Happy?”

So often I’ve said, “All I want is for my kids to be happy.” What mother wouldn’t? We humans ask each other all the time, “Are you happy?” The assumption is if you answer no, you’re doing something wrong. You need to get back on the happiness track. For almost 55 years now, I’ve believed that, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s the question we should really be asking.

Because to answer that question honestly, we’d have to say, “Sure, I’m happy sometimes. I’m even joyful. But other times I’m sad, angry, frustrated, worried, annoyed.” There were times I didn’t like my jobs. In other words, I wasn’t happy at work. But for various reasons I had to stay, at least for a while, and often I learned something from the experience. There were times I was not happy with my husband or children, but that didn’t mean I loved them any less. There were times I was not happy with my health, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t grateful to be alive.

And that’s how it should be. You can’t know true joy unless you’ve felt great sadness. You can’t experience real love without knowing deep pain. You can’t have people in your life for whom you care without realizing you may someday lose them. You can’t feel safe unless you face your fears.

When we were in Ireland, my husband asked a fellow patron at the bar if he was having a good day. “Any day I wake up, put two feet on the floor, and stand is a good day,” the man said. It’s entirely possible that when he stood, his back hurt. Or he realized his furnace had gone out. Or he heard his grounded teenager sneaking back into the house. Regardless, to be able to stand, to know you can get that furnace fixed, to have the privilege of raising a child, those are all good things.

Am I happy?  Sometimes. Very. More importantly, do I have a good life? Absolutely! Aches, pains, worries, and all.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Your True Self Was Right There All Along

I had a weird thought this week . . . with all the talk about “finding your true self” and all the books and methods that teach you how to do that, what if finding your true self is as simple as setting aside a few days to be totally alone and see who you are when no one is watching, judging, expecting, requesting, or needing anything from you.

Many of us think we know who we are at our core. At times, I feel confident I do. But as soon as someone else enters the picture, we sometimes set aside our true selves to be what they want/need. Mostly, it’s done out of love, but sometimes it’s done out of guilt, shame, embarrassment, or obligation.

A while back, my wonderful husband was gone for a few days and I had the opportunity to just be myself. I slept in later than usual because there was no one there to tease me or to wonder if I was okay or to be waiting breakfast for me. I turned up my “Irish Yoga” playlist while I did my yoga and, in this private space, was able to really sink in to both the music and the practice. I arranged to get together with some friends, one at a time, while we did things I enjoy, like eating out at a really good restaurant and attending a live performance. I watched a movie that night my husband wouldn’t have liked and I loved it. All the while, I was keenly aware of how those actions made me feel, what they made me think, and how they raised my energy.

It’s important sometimes to get back in touch with what makes you tick all on your own. Not just doing the things you like to do, but exploring your uninterrupted thoughts. Where do they take you? Not just doing something for yourself, but doing nothing and seeing how that feels.

My introvert friends would probably stop me right here and say, “I do that all the time. I love being by myself.” But I’m not just talking about being alone. I’m talking about once in a while removing all expectations, including the ones we have for ourselves. Setting aside the “I have to” things we do every day: “I have to meditate first thing in the morning, or go for a jog, or write in my journal.” When did you decide those things were “musts” in your life? Did it make sense when you decided, but it maybe doesn’t make sense now? Did you decide on those musts because someone told you that you should, or because you believed it was expected of you, or because you thought it would lead to your best self? What if your best self doesn’t need any improvement? What if it just is?

This life demands a lot from us. We demand a lot from ourselves. We play our parts well. During the pandemic, especially during the lockdown, many people had time and space and quiet for the first time since they were children to remember who they are at their core. That, of course, led to “The Great Resignation.” Let’s not waste the experience of these past two years. Let’s give ourselves permission to rediscover our true selves.

John Wooden once said, “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.” I’d say, the true test of our core selves is who we are when no one is watching. Try it.

By Teresa R. Funke

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You Are Not

I’ve been reading a book called Real: The Inside-Out Guide to Being Yourself by Clare Diamond. In Part One, Diamond deconstructs “self” by telling us all the things we are not. We are not our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, or even our past. It’s quite the liberating feeling to realize all the things you think you are, are just that. Thoughts. Momentary, transient thoughts. So, what if we applied that concept to our perceptions of ourselves as artists? What would that look like? Let’s try it through the lens of writing, understanding you can substitute your art or career for the word “writing”:

You Are Not Your Output: It doesn’t matter if you publish one book or twenty. In fact, it doesn’t matter if you publish a book or blog or article at all. Maybe you fill journal after journal but never show your work to anyone. You are still a writer. The writing was for you. It was for your soul’s journey. It was a tool to help you better navigate this life and learn more about yourself. This is not a competition. You could write 100 books and probably only one or two would stand the test of time. You could write only one book and change the world. You can force yourself to write every day just so you can call yourself a “real writer,” but most of your output probably won’t be your best work because it was an exercise in discipline, not a calling from your muse.

You Are Not Your Awards: We all know those writers who’ve racked up dozens of awards. After the first two or three, they often don’t show up at every awards ceremony anymore. Awards are great, but they’re subjective. It all depends on who is judging. Swap out those judges, and the results might be very different. Awards can help sell books, or not. I know award-winning authors who had trouble selling their next books because their first books didn’t earn out well. Awards are good for the ego, but as all things ego-driven, that elation is fleeting. Then we start wondering what other awards we might win, or whether our next book will also win, or we becoming envious when other deserving authors “steal” the award we thought we should have won. The real reward of writing is writing. Typing the words “the end” at the completion of a manuscript feels every bit as good as delivering an acceptance speech.

You Are Not Your Income: Most professional writers make very little money off their sales when compared with other products and professions. There’s the 5% who achieve star status and sell movie and merchandise rights, but they are few and far between and often don’t see that kind of success until their third or fourth book. I know authors who make good money off their royalties and still find plenty of things to justifiably complain about in our industry. And I know authors who make very little, work really hard, and relish every single sale as a personal success. Write because it brings you joy, because it adds a thing of beauty to our world, because your story might change one person for the better (even if that person is you). And if you hit the motherlode, great! That money you’ve made will move through the universe and do some good for others. If not, you are still worthy.

You Are Not Your Identity: There are many facets to your identity. You are a spouse or a parent or a child. You’re a good friend, a volunteer, a full-time worker. You’re a fitness lover or a couch potato. You’re many, many things, and artist is one of them. It’s not all of you, it might not even be the best of you, no matter how good you are. It’s who you are until you’re not. Many writers, for example, never retire. Some do gladly. Many love writing above most things, others start to love something else more. Many writers only write, others also sing or paint or act. Are they “a writer” or “a painter”? They are both, and more. Write for as long as you love it, as long as it calls to you, but don’t worry if something else calls to you louder for a while, or forever. We are shifting, changing, growing human beings. That’s our journey on earth. Nothing ties us down, not even our passions.

You Are a Gift: You’re here to make a difference, to be your unique self, to serve others, to discover your true and changing being. You are the gift. Your art, whatever it is, is a gift to help you. Be thankful for it, relish it, love it, but don’t let it define you. Stay creative, stay curious, stay open to all the gifts that may come your way.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Stop, Please

When my kids were little, I taught them to say the words “Stop, please” if anyone in the family was doing something that bothered or upset them. I made it clear they had to say the exact words in the exact order. They couldn’t just yell, “Stop it.” Because the words themselves were the cue that you’d crossed a line and really, really needed to knock it off.

I’d say my rule worked about half the time. The rest of the time, I’d hear a string of “stop, please” appeals and understand a certain sibling was not adhering to the rule. Then I’d have to step in, always with a reminder that those words were sacred and needed to be respected.

There are many times lately when I wish I could say “stop, please” to so many things in our fractured and suffering world. Stop, please, to the violence, the political gridlock, the racial injustice, even the pandemic. The advocate in me does try to find ways to send my pleas out in the world, but I admit this last year my voice came out more as a whisper.

So lately I’ve been focused on myself. What can I stop doing in order to regain my strength, my energy, and my creativity after such a traumatic time? I started by saying “stop, please” to the voices that told me I wasn’t doing enough, that I didn’t have the right to take a break. And then “stop, please” to the voices that chastised me for failing to keep my fears and worries in check. “Stop, please” to the voices that tried to convince me I was not well. And “stop, please” to the ones that insisted I hold tight to old identities that no longer fit. And finally, “stop, please” to the voices that repeated old mantras about output and busyness as the measures of worth and success.

It took months of repeating those words to myself to arrive where I am now, in a healthier, although still pondering, state. It took months to stop the looping thoughts that were holding me back, and to find wisdom in the quiet spaces. Each day a judgement still arises about how differently I’m moving through my days, but if I catch it early enough, my “stop, please” seems to work. Because the truth is, there’s no authority figure (no mom) that’s going to step in and set things right. It’s up to me now. Only I can give myself permission to honor where I’m at and feel safe enough to know I have the power within myself to stop or start anything I choose. Sometimes stopping is the first step to starting.

By Teresa R. Funke

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A Little Patience Goes a Long Way – Revisted

This post first ran April 6, 2019

Layli Long Soldier is an Oglala Lakota poet, writer, and artist. In an On Being interview with Long Soldier, she said, “Writing has shown me what happens with patience.”

Oh wow, I thought. That’s an understatement! I don’t consider myself a terribly patient person. I’m an activator, someone who wants things to happen now, someone who wants to see quick results from my efforts and receive speedy responses to my inquiries. I’m someone who would make my dreams come true tomorrow, if I could.

But a life in the arts has taught me patience, whether I like it or not:

Patience with myself as I learn the craft and business of writing

Patience with my ideas as they take their time to form

Patience with my stories as they slowly unfold

Patience with my characters when they refuse to cooperate

Patience with the publishing industry as I await responses

Patience with production timelines that don’t match my goals

Patience with my marketing efforts as they slowly take hold

Patience with people who criticize my work or want something more from me

Patience with the obligations and responsibilities that keep me from my art

Patience with the universe while I wait for those signs for how to move forward

But Long Soldier is right. Patience is a gift. It slows us down and teaches us tolerance. It evens our tempers and brings moments of tranquility. It shows us beauty and opens us to love. It gives us the strength to endure and the will to persevere. It connects us to our sense of purpose and to the needs of others. It allows us time for self-reflection and reminds our egos they don’t always come first. Patience makes our art better. And our art makes us more patient.

Though I’m sometimes a reluctant student, for all the things patience has taught me, I’m grateful. And for all the ways art makes me more patient, I’m appreciative. And to all the stories, ideas, connections, and dreams that have been patient with me, thank you, too.

May a little patience lead us all a long, long way.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Space for All to Grow

A couple of my friends had some of their titles go out of print this year. That’s such a hard thing for a writer, to see a book you loved into existence simply go away. Of course, now with self-publishing they can reprint the books if they can get the rights back and if they want to deal with the hassle, but those stories will likely not get the attention they once did.

I was still thinking about those friends when I visited an exhibit called “Analog City: NYC B.C. (Before Computers)” at the Museum of the City of New York last week. Many of the displays were interactive. A man was pecking away at an old electric typewriter. Parents were explaining to their kids how a card catalog worked.  My husband and I groaned to our daughter about how many hours we spent in college searching for documents on the microfiche. There was a time when those devices were ubiquitous. We thought they’d never go away. Inventors marveled as their technologies spread across the globe and entered nearly every workplace.

And then one day the telegraph gave way to the telephone and iPods gave way to smart phones. And now many of the devices we once could not live without can be found only in museum exhibits. Progress, so they say.

Artists don’t like to think of our works being replaced. We want to imagine, like Shakespeare, they’ll still be producing our plays 400 years after we die. Or we’ll create a song so classic people are still remaking it decades later. But there’s only so much space on the bookstore shelves or the gallery walls, which means some things have to go in order to make room for the next great American novel or artistic masterpiece.

How well I remember that burning desire to see my books in print. How it drove nearly everything I did in my 20s. I remember how much I looked up to and admired the writers who were succeeding and how desperately I wanted to join them. How much I prayed but also trusted my time would come.

And it did. I achieved my dream of publishing a book eight times over. And after 30 years, I’m not yet ready to let my life’s work fade away, but it does seem fair for some of us who’ve gotten our breaks to step back just enough to make space for the new voices, new talent, and new hunger. And to create space in our own hearts and minds to grow beyond the identities we’ve set for ourselves as writers and artists.

Just because no one uses a mimeograph machine anymore, just because most people don’t even know what it was, doesn’t mean it didn’t serve a purpose. For a time, it brought new excitement, productivity, and inspiration to our world. It was part of a chain of human invention that expanded our minds and ushered in new possibilities. It was born from creative energy, and that energy is still with us today. It’s reflected in all the books we’ve written, published or not, in print or not. How lucky we are to be part of this never-ending and inspiring timeline.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Do You Even Have an Inner Artist – Revisited

This post originally ran April 27, 2019

When people ask what my blog is about, I often say it’s an inspirational blog to help people tap into and support their inner artist. “Oh, that’s not for me,” some reply. “I’m not creative. And I’m certainly not an artist.”

I’m always a little surprised by that response. It makes me realize somewhere down the line we all formed opinions of what a creative person is. Mostly, we think of creative people as those who work or dabble in the traditional arts (music, dance, writing, painting, etc.). Or people who use their creativity to develop new products or services. Or people who work in “creative fields,” like graphic artists or architects or craft brewers.

Why do we do that? Why do we put boxes around our art? Why do we label our creativity? With so many changes that need to be made in our world right now, so many big problems to solve, so many people to help, we need an army of inner artists to tackle the challenges we face. Now is not the time to deny you even have an inner artist, now is the time to ask him to step up.

Some of the most creative, most brilliant people I know are not professional artists. They’re not even hobby artists. But they’ll tell me a story about a new program they proposed that will improve their homelife, community, or workplace.

“How did you come up with that idea?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It just came to me,” they say.

In truth, they had first identified a problem, then wondered if it could be solved, then started hearing the whispers of their inner artist who had an idea that just might work. Our inner artists work with the tools they are given: our talents, skills, experience, frustrations, fears, and mostly our imaginations. And from that, they create art.

We do it every day, all day. Maybe you’re sick of eating the same old meals, so you experiment and toss some new ingredients into a pot. Or you notice something broken in your house and, rather than pitching it, you devise a clever way to fix it. Or you tire of explaining a lesson in the same old way, so you come up with a new way to say it. In all those cases, your inner artist was at work. How do you know? Because you feel damn good when you’re done! That’s your inner artist offering you a high five.

I have a friend who is constantly rearranging the furniture in her house and painting and repainting the same walls. Why does she do it? Why does she keep moving furniture around when it’s fine where it is? Because it makes her happy. Because it’s something she and her inner artist can do together. What if she were to take her “art” to her workplace? What if she rearranged the conference room furniture in such a way that everyone felt a lift in energy when they entered the room? How much more productive would that day’s meeting be?

Quit denying your inner artist. Quit shunning her to the corner to sit with her head hung down like a child in time out. Trust your creativity, however it manifests.

There is no right or wrong way to be creative.

There is no right or wrong place to be creative.

There is no right or wrong time to be creative.

Do you have an inner artist? Of course, you do! So, turn him/her loose today, and let’s light up this world.

By Teresa R. Funke

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It’s So Much Work Just Being Alive

My husband laughed last night when I said that: “It’s so much work just being alive.” I was describing my day, in which I’d awakened with a list in my head of all the things I was going to get done, and by the end of the day, only half of them were completed.

In the middle of responding to e-mail, I remembered I needed to reschedule my dentist appointment. Which reminded me I had to fill out and scan pages and pages of “new patient” info for a new doctor I’m trying. Which reminded me we are almost out of coffee, so I hopped over to the website of our local coffee maker and placed an order. Which reminded me I needed to get one get well card, one sympathy card, and one wedding card in the mail that day.

Before you knew it, it was time to prepare dinner.

And I’m the lucky one right now. I don’t have a senior graduating from high school this year or a child getting married. I’m not trying to sell my house or complete a grad degree. I’ve just got the “usual” life messes to deal with, and that feels like enough!

There was a time when I was convinced I could do it all. I completed that list, even if it meant staying up past my bedtime, or giving up my reading time, or eating lunch at my desk. No more. I mentioned earlier that when I finished my chores, it was time to start dinner. Only I didn’t. I went outside and sat on the Adirondack chair on our porch and watched the breeze stir the baby leaves in our oak trees. I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my face. I delighted in watching two squirrels chase each other around the yard.

It took me 54 years to finally and truly realize I was addicted to the “reward” of getting things done. The opportunity to feel a sense of accomplishment and conclusion. The pride that came from knowing I could “do it all.” I had come to value my own worth based on excelling at my many jobs and being the best mother, wife, author, speaker, volunteer, business owner, ideator, and creator I could be. I understood the importance of fun, and I worked that into my schedule. But I never understood the pleasure of just sitting in the moment. I never saw the value in “doing nothing.”

I do now. It still doesn’t come easily to me. I have to quiet the part of my brain that is screaming, “Get up! There’s so much to do.” Because there really isn’t. What’s that old saying, “Be a human being, not a human doing”?  It turns out doing nothing isn’t really doing nothing. It’s so much more than that.

I think my muse got tired of following me around the house as I tried to get more things done. That’s why I haven’t heard from her much lately. She went outside to sit under the oak tree and wait for me to join her. She was tired of raising her voice over the sound of the microwave, the dishwasher, the printer. Like a loving child, she wanted a deeper conversation and my full attention. She was pouting, I think, until I came to my senses. But now we’re talking again. And it feels good.

By Teresa R. Funke

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What Negative Emotions Teach Us About Love

A friend was telling me about a specific regret she has regarding a family member. It surfaces now and then, and when it does, it loops through her head all day. She knows it’s not “healthy” to dwell on that regret, since there’s nothing that can be done about it now, but she can’t help it. I said to her, “Don’t beat yourself up so much for looping. After all, under so many of our ‘negative’ emotions – anger, worry, sadness, fear, resentment – lies love.” At the heart of her regret was love for the person she was missing.

I started applying this realization to many of the emotions I have been experiencing lately. It was no surprise that underneath so much of my fear and worry was love. That was pretty obvious. But the disillusionment I’ve felt lately with the publishing industry is also coming from a place of love. My love for an industry and an art I feel is so essential that it hurts to see the system so broken. My own feelings of unworthiness lately have stemmed from a story I told myself long ago about what makes us worthy. I had to learn to love myself again, whether I was living up to that manufactured ideal or not.

I’ve never been much of a grudge-holder, but a few months ago, I decided to give it a try. I felt cast aside by someone I loved, so I decided to believe they didn’t matter. I tried to stop caring about them in the same way I had and definitely stopped hoping for more. After a few months of that, I felt no better, because the fact was, they did matter. The love I felt for them was still there. And trying to replace it with feelings of resentment and anger did nothing to dissolve that. It only gave me another burden to carry.

Another friend was telling me about the Welcoming Prayer, where you welcome in an emotion, sit with it, and then let it go. I purposely did not look up exactly how that works, because I knew what the suggestion meant to me. I could picture myself saying, “Welcome, anger. You have every right to be here now. Talk to me. Let’s sit together until it’s time for you to move on.”

It’s such a non-judgmental way to acknowledge all our feelings and let them be. I like to end by asking myself “Where is the love?” And quite often, I find it. Sometimes it’s for the person who wronged me. Sometimes it’s for a passion I wish I could protect. Sometimes it’s love for myself, knowing I’ve probably made the same mistake at some point that this person is making now, and just as I wouldn’t want to be judged, I won’t judge them either.

Finding the love doesn’t mean we condone the behavior. It doesn’t even mean we need to keep that person in our lives. But it does mean we can appreciate that the love was once there (maybe still is) and love is the one emotion that is always welcome.

By Teresa R. Funke

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