Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 13

Come Out and Play

Dr. Stuart Brown, author of Play: How it Shapes the Brain, Opens the Imagination, and Invigorates the Soul, has defined eight “play personalities.” You know me, I couldn’t resist taking the quiz to discover mine. The types are: the joker, the kinesthete, the explorer, the director, the competitor, the collector, the artist/creator, and the storyteller. Based on the descriptions, I assumed I’d be either explorer or storyteller. According to the quiz, I’m the latter.

During the past two difficult years, I’ve found it hard to play. Not that I haven’t tried. But in the early days of the pandemic, so many of the things I thought of as play—karaoke parties with my friends, going to live theater or to hear music, eating out at restaurants, traveling—were taken off the table. I wasn’t sure how else to play. Sure, I had more time for my quiet pleasures, like reading or watching movies, but the more social and new-to-me experiences were limited.

Then, as things started opening up again, I realized I lacked the energy or the motivation for play. It felt “hard” to be in social settings again, something that used to come so easily to me. And after 30 years of living in the same town, nothing felt “new” anymore.

According to the definition of “the storyteller,” my play focuses on imagination. It says I may also like to perform or write, and that I immerse myself in books and movies because it allows me to feel the emotions of the characters and step into their worlds. It’s true. In the past two years, with my mind racing around all the troubles we were all experiencing, the only time I could escape my concerns was when I read a book or watched a movie. Or when I was doing my own writing.

I’ve talked to several friends lately who are trying to return to activities they once loved and finding those things lacking. They can’t explain why, but those activities no longer fill them up. Many are tinkering with new hobbies or diving into new areas of knowledge. Many had to give themselves permission to no longer love the things that once made them happy. We had to convince ourselves it wasn’t wrong not to go back to the people we had once been. How can we, really, after all we’ve been through the past two years?

I’m looking for new ways to play, new stories to tell myself and others. We’re starting to travel again, but even the trips we’re planning look different. I’m dedicating this weekend to play. I’ve lined up several friends to do different things with me to see if I can rekindle a sense of adventure right here in my same old town, if I can stay in the moment during a live performance, if I might stumble across something that will make me laugh really hard.

There are plenty of things to worry about in our world lately. Lots of things that make me despair. But there are beautiful things, too, and good people doing good things, and artists sharing their art. And it’s okay to sometimes sit in that space. Not just okay, it’s necessary.

So go play.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Matchup: Mind vs. Heart

I raised my kids to follow their hearts; to trust their intuition. I truly believe our gut responses are often the best. So why is it so hard sometimes to just “go with the gut”? Why do our minds feel the need to try to override our intuition?

So many times, I get an immediate hit about the right direction to take. Then my overprotective, overcautious, overly critical mind has to have its say. It presents alternatives to my decision, it cautions me I might be making a mistake, it reminds me that people might not understand or approve, that I might be judged and found wanting.

Well-intentioned though it may be, when my mind is convinced it’s right, it’s downright forceful in its insistence that I listen to it and not my heart, which it sees as weak or flighty or unrealistically optimistic.

If I continue to come back to the wisdom of my gut, my mind shoots its most deadly arrows, guilt trips, manipulations, self-criticism.

In the end, it breaks down and pleads for me to listen. “No good will come of this,” it says. “You’ll be sorry. Please do as I say.”

And all the while, my heart is still. It’s calm and relaxed. It invites me into the center of peace. It tickles me with promises of joy. It doesn’t pressure or judge. It just says, “Follow me and I’ll take care of you. But if you don’t, I’ll love you anyway.”

Far too often, I’ve listened to my mind. I’ve grown weary, though, lately of always being “in my head.” Today, I’m following my heart. Sorry, mind. You lost this round. Deal with it!

By Teresa R. Funke

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What Gets You There

The other day, someone mentioned the book, What Got You Here Won’t Get You There by Marshall Goldsmith. I have not read it, so I’m not sure what it’s about (my apologies to the author) but the title really struck me. As I’m progressing through my yearlong sabbatical, it has occurred to me several times that all the things that got me to where I am now are not necessarily the things that are going to move me forward.

Without any specific plan for this year, I’ve been accumulating new skills and knowledge that I assume are leading me toward something, but I’m not sure what. It’s been awfully interesting to learn them, though. It’s amazing how busy you can be just following your own curiosity.

And while I’ve maintained some of my work, I’ve found that I approach it slightly differently now. I’ve simplified some things and done away with others. I’ve leaned into the projects I really want to do and said no to things I don’t, even if they’re things I can do easily and once enjoyed. I’m learning to listen to myself.

And that’s another interesting aspect to “what got you here won’t get you there.” Part of what got me here was a relentless sense of personal responsibility to the point where I never wanted to let anyone down in the slightest and always needed to go above and beyond. I’m discovering that the whole world does not fall apart if I sometimes have to change the plans. So, some of the “bad habits” I’d maintained for years are falling away, which leaves me wondering what doors in my soul that will open.

I think not just about “what” got me here, but “who.” I’m appreciating now my early mentors, my writer’s group, my first champions. All the people who built me up as a writer and speaker. Some of them are still in my life, some are not. But in the past few years, a whole new group of friends and advisors have emerged, and I’m learning so much from them! They will take me to the next level, and hopefully I will help them as well.

Everyone knows we’re not the same person when we are 10 as we are when we’re 20. Not the same person at 25 as 30. And yet once we settle into true adulting in our 30s, we tend to think we’re done changing. And others tend to believe they know who we are; that our identities and personalities are fixed. But it’s not so. I hope when I’m 64 I’m not the same person I am now at 54.

It’s kind of exciting wondering what’s coming next. I’m proud of all the hard work, passion, and commitment that got me here, and now I’m eager to see how my curiosity and intention will get me there.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Awake My Soul to Hope

In the Mumford and Sons song, “Awake My Soul,” there’s a line that says, “Where you invest your love, you invest your life.”  I just returned from a trip to visit my aunt. In her bathroom, she has a towel that reads, “Love, Family, Faith.” In those three things she has invested her entire life with all the love she could give.

For a long time, hope was how I invested my love. I built my career on hope. You kind of have to if you go into the arts. I built my family on hope, starting with the day I said yes to my husband’s marriage proposal. I built my community work and activism on hope. Hope that things really could improve.

At some point in the last turbulent two years, I sort of lost some hope. The first days of the pandemic felt so incredibly hopeless as the streets of our cities became ghost towns and the hospitals filled to capacity. The political climate in this country felt hopeless, so did the cultural divides. The struggling publishing industry has left many of my writer friends feeling discouraged, and now there’s a war raging that feels like a throwback to World War II. Is there any hope humans will ever stop fighting?

Hope, though, is a life force. It is pure energy. Without it, we falter, we stagnate, we wither. Hope is our anchor. It keeps us safe and strong during all the storms life throws at us. Hope has seen us through the darkest days in our history. Hope is the reason babies are born.

Without hope, there is no creativity, no art, no music. No ambition or inspiration or drive. Without it there is also no peace, no stillness, no divine guidance.

When I was writing Remember Wake, my novel about the survivors of the Japanese prisoner-of-war camps in World War II, a few of the men told me when a prisoner lost hope, the others avoided him. They knew he was on his way out. Without hope, he could not live, and they did not want to pick up on his hopelessness. Every one of the survivors I spoke to lived for hope. It’s a dark story, I know, but that message has stuck with me all these years.

It’s time to get back to a place of hope. For all the bad that is going on in this world, there is plenty of good. There are smart, dedicated, forward-thinking individuals working for positive change. There are new inventions on the horizon. There are young leaders emerging who see a brighter future and who embrace their intuition. And there’s art to reflect all the beauty in this world and to challenge us to do better.

So, I’m asking my soul today to awaken again more fully to hope. To give my life back to love and joy and peace. To raise my own vibration and hopefully help raise the vibration for us all. I’m investing my faith today in a favorite poem by Emily Dickinson called, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers.”

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

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Does Your Unfinished Art Serve a Purpose? – Revisited

This post originally ran Aug. 24, 2019

I’ve wanted to write a novel about my Mexican grandmother since I was fifteen. I’ve known all along what the first line would be: “When I was nine years old, Poncho Villa rode into town and killed a merchant in the street.” Whenever I think of that line, I get the shivers, remembering the day my notoriously quiet grandmother let that memory slip out.

But it’s never seemed like the right time to tackle that book. I never wanted to try when I was younger because her story was so important to me that I wanted to wait until I felt I was a stronger writer. And then as I grew in my writing ability, I got deep into my World War II stories and committed to finishing those. And now, my writing is taking a new direction. In fact, I’m not sure when or if I’ll write another work of fiction. So, where does that leave Grandma’s book?

Is it possible I’ll never pen that novel that I’ve wanted to write for 37 years? Is it possible her inspiring story, her American dream saga, will never see the light of day? And if so, does that mean I’ve failed her or failed myself? I don’t think so.

See, some of our creative work is meant to get out there in the world, and some is meant just for us, for our internal motivation and inspiration. Just because it never lands on the page or the canvas or the stage doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. Every time I think about my grandma’s story and play out a scene in my mind or jot down a line of dialogue, I feel closer to her and to the tale that made me want to be a writer in the first place.

I have an author friend who said whenever she starts a new book, she pictures the finished product (cover and all) floating before her. The knowledge that the final book exists in this future form makes it seem real to her. That’s what keeps her going. I think my grandma’s story is that image for me. It represents possibility in all its forms.

I hope I do write Grandma’s novel someday. What a thrill it would be to finally hold it in my hands. But even if I don’t, her presence and her family’s history has worked its way into much of my writing, everything from essays, to short stories, to my children’s book, V for Victory. In many ways, she is still the reason I write.

So, if you’re feeling the time isn’t right for a project you know you want to do, but you worry the time will never be right, release that pressure. You’ll either do it or you won’t, but something about that idea has already changed you for the better.

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Is Love Sometimes Enough?

There was a time in my life when I longed for the kind of good friends I have now. I mean true kindred spirits. Soulmates. People who care for me and allow me to care for them. People who are at once vulnerable and wise. People who make me feel safe and who welcome my love. I’m blessed indeed.

There’s a trade-off, though, to having people in your life whom you adore. It means when they’re hurting, you’re hurting too. When they’re worried, you’re worried along with them but also for them. When they’re sick, you wish there was something you could do to make them better. At this stage in my life, many of my friends are dealing with big problems: aging parents, troublesome teens, health scares, etc. They aren’t really the types of problems you can laugh at, although sometimes we try.

How do we do it, then? How do we maintain our own sense of calm and peace and energy when those around us are struggling? How do we avoid feeling guilty or ashamed if we cannot always be there for them when they need us? How do we give ourselves permission to feel joy when all around us there is pain? How do we show concern for them while also holding space for ourselves?

For those of us who are creatives, it’s hard to protect our creative time when we know others could use our help. And it’s hard for us to protect our energy even though we know we need it in order to do our best work and be our best selves.

It’s important to remember, as my energy healer says, as much as we love that person, other people love them too. It’s not all on us. Our intuition can guide us to when we are most needed and in what way. Sometimes, even though we want to jump in, it might even be better to wait to be asked. Occasionally, we’re going to judge the situation wrong. We’re going to overstep or underserve. We’re going to miss the cues. Or we might not have the bandwidth to answer the requests.

But love is never in short supply. And it only takes a moment to send that their way. Love is healing. It is strength. It is energy. It is art. It is powerful beyond measure. Lean into love today. Let it flow from you and to you. Just for today, maybe, let it be enough.

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What It’s Like to Be Seen

I was listening to an interview with brilliant children’s author, Kate DiCamillo, on the On Being Podcast. She told a story of a little boy who was leaning heavily on her while she signed his book. His mother said, “Don’t lean on her, honey.” And the boy answered, “It’s okay, Mom, she knows me.”

This is what art does. It makes us feel seen. It makes us feel known. It’s why we cry when we hear a sad song on the radio, and why we keep circling back to that one painting in the gallery, and why when we read a good book, we become the characters. And for kids, especially, there is no separation between imagination and reality.

As I’m wrapping up another year of author visits to schools, I’m reflecting on all the times I’ve connected one-on-one with a child, but also the times we’ve connected as a group. For example, the other day I was talking to some fourth-grade students about World War II (the subject of my children’s novels). One boy asked, “So, who won the war?”

“Well, we did,” I said, and all the kids cheered.

“Now, wait a minute,” I continued. “Even though we won, it didn’t mean we were very happy. Most people had lost loved ones. Their husbands or sons or even fathers. We’d lost beautiful architecture and art. So many animals had been killed and so much nature destroyed.”

The boy spoke up again, in a quieter voice this time. “So, you’re saying in war, even if we win, we lose?”

“Exactly,” I said. An audible sigh shifted across the room of wise nine-year olds.

Books and art bring children into the world from which we so often try to protect them. They provide a safe place for kids to wonder at the sadness and also the beauty of this world. There’s not a child alive who doesn’t have problems, doubts, insecurities, fears. There’s not a child alive, no matter how loved or cared for, who doesn’t sometimes feel out of place or alone or misunderstood. There’s not a child alive who doesn’t long for something they don’t have.

Books and art make us feel like we belong. Whether the character is an animal, a tree, an alien, or a person from way back in the past, we see ourselves in that character but we also feel seen by the characters, by the author, by the teacher or parent who is reading the book to us.

Kids often come up to me after a school visit to tell me about the books they are working on. Sometimes they show me some of their writing (or their illustrations). Sometimes they look at me with such longing and say, “I want to be a writer, too, when I grow up.”

All I can do is look deeply into their eyes and respond, “You already are a writer. Look at what you’ve done here. You’ve started a story. You shared it with me. That’s all it takes. You saw the story first, now I’ve seen it too. Now, it’s real.”

During the writing exercises we do together, I often encourage the kids by saying, “There’s no right or wrong answer. This is your story. It belongs to you. You decide.”  That permission opens them right up.

Right now, in this churning, challenging world we’re living in, it’s easy to get lost in the chaos. It feels necessary to tell ourselves that other things matter more than we do. It’s nearly impossible some days to believe in magic.

Until someone sees you. And in that moment, your lungs fill with a quick, exuberant breath, and your eyes relax into a smile, and your shoulders release the weight of the world. It’s like when an actor on stage breaks the fourth wall and looks directly at the audience, and we’re jolted back into life again. Not the life we are observing as we “get through” our busy days. The life we are experiencing with our hearts and minds and senses. The reason we came.

This week, find a moment to feel seen, even if it’s only in your imagination. Imagine yourself hiking to the top of a hill and throwing your arms out wide. Let the sun and clouds and wind “see” you there. Let the whole world see you. Tell yourself a story about what you want in which you are the hero, because you are. Paint or draw or sing or dance even if you’re not very good. Free your spirit. Allow it to be seen, even if it’s only by your paintbrush or the shower walls.

Then take a deep breath. Can you feel them now? All the other Spirits out there needing to be seen? Step into that space and you’ll hear it, that audible sigh of wisdom and recognition as it shifts across space and we all come together in that one wonderous moment.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Going with the Flow

The members of my women’s group each pick a “word for the year.” I went round and round on which word to choose this time. Going round and round on some things is, unfortunately, how my mind often works. Finally, I settled on the word, “flow,” partly because I’d love to learn how to just let thoughts and emotions flow through me, rather than looping endlessly through my mind and body.

As a writer, the word flow has all kinds of positive connotations. It’s generally considered to be a state of mind in which you become utterly immersed in the story, fully focused and energized by the activity, and you lose track of time. It’s a pretty cool place to visit, I assure you.

My intuitive friends talk about entering a state of flow when they get really present. They can experience it even while doing the dishes or going for a walk. I’m working on that.

But flow also appealed to me because I’m desiring to be a conduit lately for good things to flow through me into the world, whatever that might look like.

I had also considered the words “non-grasping,” “detachment,” and “surrender,” which I’ve been studying and leaning in to during this time of sabbatical, but those words seemed to fit within the word flow. Because once you embrace (or hopefully achieve) those things, higher energy will flow through you better.

And flow seemed related to the minor health issue I’ve been dealing with, which I know is exacerbated by stress and worry. So, if I could distance myself from those two heavy emotions, I might get my health flowing again.

Flow also evokes the lovely image of a river meandering through a beautiful meadow on its way to the sea. Such a calming and reassuring image to return to, especially during these anxious days.

Then there’s the flow of time, which reminds me that nothing we, or I, am experiencing now is really new or unknown. The earth and civilizations have cycled through all of our current events more than once. We have wisdom from the past and we have hope for the future. We’re built for this, and we must trust that. That’s reassuring on those days when everything feels so overwhelming.

If there’s no such thing as “bad emotions,” then it’s okay to feel anger, fear, anxiety, and grief, but the trick is to feel them and let them flow through you and not get stuck. The good feelings, like love and gratitude and abundance, have an even greater power, because they can and should flow through us and out into the world.

Once again, my initial impulse was the right one. Flow was the first word that came to me, but my monkey mind had to question it. It had to wonder if there was a “better” word or if I was somehow “wrong” in choosing that word. But my body, mind, and spirit knew this was the word that could guide me through whatever changes are coming this year. It’s time to ask my ego –that well-intentioned part of me that thinks it’s helping when it points out all my fears, concerns, long-held beliefs, and adherence to societal expectations – to step aside for a bit. It’s time to give myself permission to finally go with the flow. Wish me luck!

By Teresa R. Funke

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What Does Advocacy Look Like for You?

I was presenting to a group of 7th graders about writing and World War II , which is what my novels are about. At one point, I asked someone to speak up with an example. Many of you may remember being in 7th grade. It’s that time when you sort of want to speak up, but you’re not going to if no one else raises their hand. So, when no hands went up, I said, “Okay, we’ve been talking about how brave the kids of World War II were and how they stepped up to help save this country. I need someone to be brave enough to raise their hand.” Three timid hands went up.

I’ve been reading a book called Sparked by Jonathan Fields which talks about different Sparktypes®    and how those types help you feel energized in your work. My primary Sparktype® is “Advocate,” which surprised me a bit. Given the names of the types and my work as a writer/entrepreneur, I would have guessed Maker or Maven or even Performer might have been first. The book asked you, though, to think about how you show up not only at work but how you showed up as a kid, or as a parent, or in what you choose to do for fun, and sure enough the mark of an advocate was all over my profile.

People advocate in different ways, of course. I’ve done so by telling stories in my books and my blog, and also in the partnerships I’ve formed in the community and in the groups I’ve led. I make myself vulnerable enough to tell my own story if I think that might inspire someone else. I raise awareness about causes I feel strongly about. I donate when I can. I connect people who can help each other. Advocacy gives me energy.

I have a friend who stands on a street corner every Saturday holding signs calling for universal health care. It’s not unusual for her to be there by herself, but that doesn’t matter. It’s her form of advocacy. I have another friend who invites people onto her podcast now and then to talk about diversity, equity, and inclusion, though that’s not the main focus of her podcast. That’s her advocacy. I have a friend who used to run the refugee program in a nearby town. Her advocacy was her full-time job. I have another friend who calls her senators to let them know how she feels about the issues. It only takes a few minutes, but she knows it’s important.

Maybe advocacy is not your main strength. Maybe it’s something you have to make yourself do. Maybe you only do one thing a year because that’s all the energy you can muster for that type of engagement. Maybe speaking up and acting out is downright terrifying for you. I get that. We don’t all have to walk around with megaphones, and not everyone is cut out to lead the charge, but we can all do something.

I’m grateful to those three students who raised their hands and took a chance, but I’m just as grateful to the other kids who gave me their full attention while I spoke, and the ones who took up their pencils and wrote diligently when we reached that part of the workshop, and the ones who came up afterwards to speak to me privately about something that mattered to them. However you best show up, just show up! There’s no “right way” to be brave. When we all work together, when we honor each other’s strengths, and when we each do small things, big things happen.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Committing to the Messy Middle

When I was a kid, I made up my own language. I wanted to speak in a foreign tongue, but, of course, I didn’t know any, so I just strung some sounds together and pretended. I mostly spoke it to my stuffed animals and sometimes to my little brother, probably to bug him. And occasionally to my mom, probably to impress her. She would sometimes even play along if she could guess from my gestures what I was asking for. I couldn’t have taught you my language. There were no linguistic rules and no consistent “words” even, but I thought it was pretty cool.

When I got to middle school and started studying Spanish, I’d often fantasize about waking up one morning miraculously in full command of the language. Just like that. Overnight. Maybe in the same manner, I could acquire French and Italian and any other language I wanted. It’s a fantasy I still entertain.

I’m eight months into my sabbatical and there’s a part of my brain that still wishes I could just make up a new system of work that would fit my passions and desires perfectly. It wouldn’t matter if no one else had ever seen it before or whether they even fully understood it, they would somehow go along with it, as my mother did. I could be in my own world and of this world at the same time.

And part of my brain wishes desperately I would just wake up tomorrow with the “answer” to this months-long soul journey I’ve been on. That overnight, all the knowledge I need to move forward would just be there along with the means to communicate it to others.

Alas, life is not so simple. And wishing and pretending only get you so far. Sometimes you have to sit in the messy middle for quite a while before you graduate to a higher understanding. You have to be patient and persistent and resist the desire to skip ahead. You have to show up to whatever practices help you master your current development and be willing to invest time and money into the tools you need to grow.

Most of all you have to trust: trust that your intuition led you to this space for a reason; trust that your Higher Self has got this under control; trust that the universe will provide the guidance you need when you need it; trust that the skills and knowledge and talents you have cultivated for so long will serve you well in whatever new direction you take; trust that your friends and family will sit with you in that messy middle.

My daughter is a drama teacher. There’s an exercise she does with little kids that has something to do with creating all kinds of walks. She told the students the other day to cross the gym as if they were slogging through honey. Most of the kids hurried through it, but one little boy moved ever so slowly, dragging his feet through the thick, sticky honey, fully immersed in the illusion. My daughter waited patiently for him to reach the other side.

“He was committed,” she said, and she admired that. She knew he’d get there. He knew it too. But he wasn’t focused on the end goal (getting to the other side) he was content to lean into the exercise of being in the muck. He was more than okay, he was fascinated by the experience.

And now that I’ve committed to sitting in this messy middle, I’m finding it pretty fascinating, too.

by Teresa R. Funke

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