Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 16

The Life Cycle of Art

I was chatting with a woman at a fundraiser about her career at our local university. She described several roles she’d played. “Wow,” I said. “You must have been there quite a while.”

“Thirty-one years,” she said. By the tone in her voice, it was clear she felt that amount of time was significant, meaningful, and also fully justified her decision to retire.

I’ve been hearing that number a lot lately, from friends in various fields and professions who are thinking about quitting, retiring, or switching jobs. “I’ve put in my 30 years,” they say, and they make it sound like such a long time!

I’m thinking about all of this because next week marks my 30th anniversary as a professional writer and self-employed entrepreneur. Earlier this year, I’d been looking forward to marking that date as a badge of honor. What a long time to hang in there in such a difficult, demanding, underpaid field.

As the date approaches, though, I’ve started thinking about the life cycle of work and art. My husband labors in corporate America where, for a long time now, the goal has been to put in your 30 years, take your gold watch, and ride off into the sunset. There’s an understanding that the company will go on without you. That even CEOs are eventually forgotten. Work hard, retire, and have fun. That’s the goal.

But artists are sold a different story. We’re told if we work hard, if we eventually realize our genius, our art will outlast us. It will live forever, hanging in galleries or being watched on streaming services long after we’re dead. To reach this end, many successful artists never retire. Not really. They may do so on paper—until they’re trotted out to speak at a lecture series or host an event—but many artists work until the day they die still hoping to produce new masterpieces. And we, the public, admire them, seeing their lifetime of work as proof of their purpose and passion.

Here’s another thought: corporate America constantly develops new products and rotates out the old ones, while artists often keep trying to sell work or styles we created years before, not because we’re egomaniacs, but because the work still feels so important to us even if it’s old. Or because our fans don’t want us to move on. They want us to keep singing those number one hits. Realistically, there’s probably a life cycle for most art. Why is it so hard to consider that?

I’m asking myself all these questions right now because my anniversary is giving me the opportunity to look back over three decades (how did they go by so fast?) of work of which I’m incredibly proud. But it’s also causing me to consider opportunities I missed or goals that failed to materialize. If I were in any other field, I’d be thinking about what comes next. But there’s no gold watch for artists. No pension. No retirement plan.

This is not a rant, it’s just an observation. As always, I’m just wondering. My husband’s friends who were psychologically and financially ready to retire now spend more time on the golf course or watching their grandkids or volunteering at their favorite nonprofit. And we applaud them for that. They completed the work cycle and they’ve earned their time off. They now get to pursue whatever makes them happy.

And maybe that’s what artists need to do, too, those who can afford to do so. Maybe it’s not about giving up the art, but giving up the rat race and shifting toward producing art for no other reason than it makes us happy to do so. Maybe try a new art medium, or mentor young artists, or volunteer at a gallery.

I don’t know what the answer is for me just yet. I’m still working on it. I know plenty of people, even in corporate America, who weren’t eager to retire. I’m not sure I am either. But for the first time in my life, I’m giving myself permission to wonder about just that.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Is This A Dark Night of the Soul?

My blog posts are created and stored in one long Word document. When I reopen the document to write a new post, I receive a prompt that says, “Pick up where you left off.” If I click that prompt, it scrolls down to the last post I edited. All I have to do is hit the return button and write the next post.

Today, on the anniversary of 9-11, with the Delta variant of the coronavirus surging through the nation, with children returning to an uncertain school year, with political battles raging, it feels hard to “pick up where you left off,” when you can’t even figure out where that spot is.

The world looks like a different place every morning I wake up. It’s getting harder and harder to just “keep going.” I’m feeling a lot of “why bother” and “who cares” and “what’s the difference.” It’s not healthy, I know. I’m more tired than ever and my stomach hurts most of the time. I know if I could let go of some of the stress, anger, resentment, disillusionment, and worry, I’d feel physically better. If I could rediscover joy, I’d feel happier, wiser, and more creative. If I could find faith again, I’d feel more motivated, ambitious, and strong. I thought the solution was to “stay in the now,” but the now is a pretty sucky place these days. I think I’d rather pretend I’m back on my six-week trip to Ireland in 2018 or imagine I’m in a future where all of this is behind us and we’ve somehow moved on.

If I scroll up through this long Word document, I see 375 blog posts written over seven and a half years filled with inspiration, motivation, encouragement, creativity, and lots of love. That’s what I’ve come to expect from myself when I write these posts and that’s what you’ve come to expect when you read them. But today I’m facing my own artist version of the “dark night of the soul,” wondering if this is all really meaningless. There’s actually a sense of release and relief in that thought. Permission to walk away from toiling so hard at writing and everything else I’ve devoted my career to for 30 years. I hope this really is a dark night of the soul, because my understanding of the modern interpretation of that term means I get to emerge on the other side a new person with a deeper sense of purpose and connectedness with something larger than myself.

I always thought the dark night of the soul would be a lonely place, but it’s not. I have many creative friends who seem to be sitting in the darkness with me. I like to think of us all joining hands and walking into whatever new daybreak awaits together. If we all come through this with a greater sense of purpose and connectedness, think how much better the world will be. We won’t pick up where we left off, we’ll start a whole new document.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Finding Solutions from a Place of Joy

A friend and I made a pact to focus on joy for 30 days. The funny thing is, after 18 months of pandemic, social and political unrest, climate disasters, and more, I was having trouble connecting to what brings me joy.

I decided to focus on really simple, kinda silly things. At the top of my list is watching Alfonso Ribeiro do his famous “Carlton Dance.” Makes me happy every time I see it. The dance originated on the show Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Carlton was the preppy, uptight foil to his cool and funny cousin, Will. Whenever he thought no one was home, Carlton would crank up Tom Jones’s song, “It’s Not Unusual,” and dance with abandon around the living room. The whole thing – from song choice to signature dance moves – is ridiculous but infectious because we’re watching Carlton’s unapologetic, nerdy, embarrassing joy unfold.

In a course I’m taking, Sara Landon said, “In the vibration of the problem, you will not find the solution.” She suggested that pursuing and finding our joy leads to answers.

When I look back on my 30-year career, my best, most fruitful, and most creative ideas never sprang from a place of forced concentration. They came to me in relaxed and happy moments. In the shower, on a road trip with my family, during a weekend retreat with friends. Then, too, my most successful and easiest projects, the ones that seemed to come together almost magically, were those that filled me with joy. I’ve launched many other projects I thought I should do, in which I worked hard and did my best. Some took off, but they never felt as easy or as fulfilling as I’d hoped they would.

I struggle with “chasing my bliss,” because it seems so spoiled and privileged to give myself permission to live life that way. I’m well aware many people are not in a position to comfortably do that. But what if sometimes I could give myself permission to lean into happiness and relaxation without feeling guilty, what could I dream up next? What new ways could I imagine to better serve my family, company, and community?

In a joyful vibration, I may find the answers.

P.S.

I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when Ribeiro created his “Carlton Dance.” I read that in the script it said only, “Carlton dances,” and I imagine Ribeiro getting into character and just playing around until he landed on the perfect moves. He says he combined Eddie Murphy’s “White Man Dance” and the moves Courtney Cox did in the Bruce Springsteen video, “Dancing in the Dark,” and voila, a classic was born. While that dance didn’t change the world, it is still bringing joy 30 years later.

By Teresa R. Funke

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This Loving Self-talk Takes a Little Getting Used To

I was listening to an old interview with Louise Hay on the Hay House podcast, You Can Heal Your Life.  Louise said when people started coming to her for help, she noticed that all of their problems fell into four categories, money, health, relationships, and creativity. At first, she tried to address each category separately in the advice she gave, and then she realized the best answer applied to all four: You must love yourself first.

She went on to say that from the time we are little, we’re told, “No. Stop that. Don’t do that. Do what I tell you.” Over time, we forget who we are and what drives us.

It was intriguing to me that she put creativity in its own category. Heaven knows we artists sometimes have a hard time loving ourselves. I heard about a study that showed the feeling of rejection registers in the brain in the same way as physical pain (learn more about that here). I told my husband, “Good Lord, writers ought to be called ‘the walking wounded.’ Remember in the early days of my career when I was getting 3-4 rejections a week?”  I developed tools for dealing with all that pain, but I don’t recall one of those tools being self-love. I don’t remember ever soothing myself the way I would soothe one of my children who was hurting. I don’t recall ever saying, “It’s okay, Teresa. You’re going to be fine. I think it’s wonderful you’re trying so hard and following your dream. You’re so strong and special not to give up. And you are more talented than you give yourself credit for. Your time will come.”

To be honest, I probably would have felt silly doing that back then, but I’m getting more comfortable with loving self-talk these days. Maybe I have the loneliness of the pandemic to thank for that.

I recently started a new project with a friend who is getting certified in feng shui. She and I are working on my house and I’m loving the improvements. I feel lighter and happier and more energetic. She told me I needed to cull some books from my overflowing bookshelves, which was a difficult thing to hear. It’s like pulling teeth to get me to part with a book. But I did it. I selected 250 books from my stacks to give away. I was going to drive them all to the library, then I had a fun idea. I decided to put them out on my driveway for one day and give them away for free. I let many of my friends know, and then I eagerly awaited the day, which was today.

Several friends did drop in and walked away with armfuls of books. Just as fun was meeting the people who stopped as they were walking or driving by. I wanted my beloved books to go to people who’d appreciate them. One of my friends said, “Leave it to you, Teresa, to declutter your house and find a way to turn it into fun for the rest of us.”

Such a sweet compliment, but I did what I always do, I waved it away. To be honest, I almost talked myself out of this idea. It would have been easier to just drive them to the library. But I decided to honor the best part of me – the part that loves to give back, loves to share my passions, loves to chat with people, and loves to make others happy.

The day went exactly as I hoped it would. So when it was over instead of just cleaning up and moving on to the next thing, I decided to let my friend’s compliment sink in. Because if rejection causes pain, then today’s validation for my good idea surely increased my well-being. So, I tried a little loving self-talk to see how it felt: “Good job, Teresa. You had a clever idea and you didn’t dismiss it, you acted on it, as you so often do. I’m proud of you for creating such a fun event. It was invigorating to watch people leave happily with their books and to hear their expressions of surprise and gratitude that everything was free. You did good.”

Whew. This loving self-talk still feels a little silly, but I think I could get used to it.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Taking Fun Off Your To-Do List

I’ve been taking a course sponsored by Mike Dooley (the guy who writes the daily Notes from the Universe).  He shared some guidance he received while practicing channeling: “It’s more important to love life than to have fun.” He explained when you love life, fun is automatic. But if you decide to have fun, that’s serious intent. It becomes a task to check off, it becomes arduous.

Those words really struck me. I understand that part of loving life is living in the moment, but that’s still something I struggle with, especially when it comes to pleasure. I’ve spent most of my life putting merriment on my calendar. I still feel a sense of “failure” if my weekend evenings are not filled with exciting things to do. I was always the “planner” among my group of friends. The person they’d call and ask, “What are we doing tonight?” The pressure was on to make sure we all had a good time. In all honesty, an equal number of those structured outings turned out to be duds as roaring successes.

I acknowledge that everyday life can be fun, like when you run into an old friend at the bank, or when your one-year old discovers the kazoo, or when a coworker spontaneously brings donuts to work and everyone rushes like children to the breakroom.

I know from experience it’s possible to have fun even in the worst moments. That’s why we laugh during funerals or sing our favorite songs to cheer ourselves up.

And I know even the most tedious tasks can be entertaining if you use your imagination.

I also know there will be plenty of moments in every day that are hard and painful or still and peaceful. If you love life, you love those moments too. It doesn’t always have to be enjoyable.

Breaking down the components of fun, we find friendship, laughter, curiosity, adventure, daring, releasing, creating, collaborating, wonder, excitement, and love. We can uncover those same things in every segment of our lives from work to school to parenting. We certainly find it in our art. Fun is always close at hand. Maybe learning to trust that is my real challenge.

Here’s to not seeking fun. Here’s to letting it find us.

By Teresa R. Funke

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I Was Not Born to Floss

Not long ago, 14-year-old Russell Horning, a.k.a. “The Backpack Kid”, originated a dance called “The Floss.” It’s a catchy little move sequence in which your straightened arms swing back and forth across your body while your hips move in a quick pendulum motion. When the dance first got popular, I asked my daughter to teach my husband and me how to do it. She stood up and demonstrated. Roger watched for about ten seconds and then he was flossing right alongside her. I was a different story.

They tried; they really did. For a good fifteen minutes my husband and daughter demonstrated over and over how to do the moves. They instructed me, they tried to move my arms and hips for me. Mostly, though, they just laughed. We all did. There was a reason I was always picked last for every team in gym class. I’ve never been coordinated.

People tell me all the time they’re not creative. They point to all the artistic things they’ve tried unsuccessfully to do (like me with dancing) and offer those up as proof. Usually, they refer to a sibling or parent who is actually good at those same things, as if they stole all the creative genes. Sometimes they tell me how hard they tried (“I took lessons for years, but I was just never good enough”), so that I understand it’s not a matter of giving up too soon. Other times, they point to something they are good at to “make up” for not being creative (“I’m not artistic, but I’m really good at math”). And then there’s my favorite, when people insist they are “left-brained” thinkers, as if it would be impossible to access their right brain no matter how hard they tried.

If I were to make a list of all the things I suck at, you might not think of me as a creative person either. But that’s not really how creativity works. Creativity isn’t about the outcome, it’s about the pursuit. It’s about the joy and the challenge and the connections that are made. It’s about laughing at how bad you are because laughter makes us feel so much better. Creativity is not about excellence or perfection; it’s about play and permission.

For the longest time, I believed I was a terrible dancer. And then when I met my husband in college, he taught me how to Western swing. I warned him I probably wouldn’t get it, but he was patient. In time, I came to love it. And I’m not half bad, if I’m dancing with Roger, because I know what moves to expect. In fact, people often compliment our dancing, which still surprises me. It’s impossible now to swing dance without a smile on my face. Sure, we’re following the moves, but the rhythm we’ve created is all our own. It’s where our creative senses came together. It’s a connection that belongs only to us. It’s creative in all the best ways. (Just don’t leave me out there on my own – you don’t want to see that).

So don’t tell me you’re not creative. I’m never going to believe you, no matter how hard or in how many ways you insist. Today, get back in touch with your own creative rhythm, with or without a partner, and just have fun.

By Teresa R. Funke

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A Message from My Future Self

Recently, a slight medical scare left me facing my mortality again. Truthfully, it doesn’t take much to scare me when it comes to medical tests. I know enough about medicine not to worry about every little  lump, scratch, or tickle, but if a doctor shows concern, I head into a tailspin.

I’m not sure why I’m such a fearful person, but I always have been. I so admire people like my husband who can have a test done and put it out of his mind until the results come back. I cycle through every possible outcome over and over, mostly at 3:00 a.m. I utter morbid asides as my sorry attempt to “lighten” the situation. Rather than throwing myself into my work to “forget my troubles,” I trouble myself by wondering if work really matters all that much, considering we’re all going to die anyway. “Geez, Mom,” my daughter says, “You’re so dramatic.”

Over dinner last night, I confided in friends about some of the medical scares I’ve had over the years. They laughed at the way I told my stories, but also commiserated about the very real terror such episodes evoke for some of us more sensitive souls. Facing our mortality means facing all the unfinished work we have yet to do, whether that’s raising our kids or starting that foundation or finally writing that book. It also evokes the question, “Have I done enough, and did I do it for the right reasons?”

A couple of days ago, I had the chance to speak virtually to a writer’s group in Florida. I gave the fifteen-minute overview of my 30-year career, and even I could recognize what I’d accomplished sounded pretty impressive. No, I’ve not yet made the New York Times bestseller list. No, I’ve not yet gotten that movie deal. No, I’ve not yet made a fortune, but I’ve followed my own path and because I have, every little achievement along the way feels very personal and very intimate. My childhood dream was to write a book. I’ve written eight! That in itself is impressive.

In my mastermind group this week, we did a “Future Self” exercise, a meditation where we visited ourselves at home 20 years in the future. Given my current state of mind over this medical scare, my first reaction was to feel deep relief that my Future Self answered the door at all. She was still here! I didn’t get a sense of specifically what she had accomplished in those 20 years, but she looked happy and calm in that grandmotherly sort of way. I had a sense she was regarded and revered as a “teacher,” although I’m not sure if that meant just for her family and friends or for a wider audience, and it didn’t seem to matter. Because the work we were put here to do changes the world in ways large and small and that’s enough. I think she had come to embody that finally.

Our work is meant to bring us joy, and that joy brings us energy, and that energy enables us to serve others, and that service lays a foundation for others to pick up where we leave off. I’m not yet ready to shuffle off this mortal coil, but I understand now that in the next 20 years all I can do is what I do. Some years that may be a lot, some years it may be a little, but always, it will be enough.

By Teresa R. Funke

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It’s Okay to Feel Homesick Right Now

I was talking to a very lovely but very sad woman in my pandemic dream last night. We were in a foreign country surrounded by beautiful scenery.

“What’s wrong?” I asked

“I’m just so homesick,” she said.

I sat down beside her. “I know, and it feels kind of wrong, doesn’t it, to feel homesick in such a beautiful place? But at least here, even with the restrictions, we can go for a walk and find something new each day. A flower we haven’t seen before or an oddly colored stone.”

“But you can also do that at home,” she said.

“That’s true,” I said with a sigh. “I try, but I need to be better at that.”

I think the dream stemmed from this guilt I’ve carried around for the past 18 months . . . this nagging feeling I’ve had no right to feel down when I’m truthfully in a good place.

Maybe the dream came on because the melancholy from which I thought I was emerging has returned a bit. With the rise in the Delta variant, I feel like I had finally arrived at the airport after a really bad trip, bags packed, ticket for home in my hand, only to discover the flight had been cancelled. So, I’ll remain on the far side of normal feeling homesick.

Maybe it doesn’t help that this week we gave away the twin beds my daughters slept in for years in order to remake that room into a better work-from-home office for my husband, now that remote work is here to stay. It was the right thing to do, and the beds went to a good family, but I felt homesick for the days when I’d go into their room to kiss them goodnight, each in their own beds, and listen to them chatter and giggle as I closed the door. Now they are grown and living in far-flung places and that’s good. It’s as it should be. But change, even when it’s good, is sometimes hard.

Mostly, I’m homesick for my old artist self, the one who was filled with passion and purpose. The one who could make a decision, any decision.  The one who could enjoy sitting on a restaurant patio listening to live music without worrying about whether her table was too close to the one next to it. (Social distancing concerns die hard.)

But here’s the thing about homesickness, when you miss something, it’s because you loved it. It’s because you love it still. And love is our greatest teacher and our greatest healer. I can look on the books I produced with as much if not more love than when I wrote them. I can look on the company I’ve built, the one that currently feels like a rebellious teenager, and realize I love it despite everything. I can remember all the previous versions of my artist self – the one who wanted desperately to be a writer but didn’t know if she could; the one who threw herself into paying her dues; the one who stood in confidence as she walked away from the traditional route; the one who worked nights and days and weekends managing a dozen different projects; and the one who slowed way, way down and lost her way during a global crisis. And I love them all.

Life has taught me if you hang in there, homesickness subsides. It may not always go away because it helps to ground you, but it moves to the side to allow you to see things with new eyes, to explore new tastes and smells, to acquire new languages and create new friendships. And when you’ve learned what you need to learn, it calls you home.

By Teresa R. Funke

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The Art of Change

A friend of mine was telling me she’d heard that creativity was one of the great casualties of the pandemic (my words, not hers). She noted how she’d stopped doing any of the creative things she’d previously loved to do, like quilting, and even now was struggling to find the energy to return to those pursuits.

Partly to keep her young daughters busy this summer and partly to spark her own creative juices, she signed them all up for a fused glass class and found while her daughters had no trouble getting into the work, she struggled. She could envision what she wanted to make, but couldn’t figure out how to get there. It upset her greatly and those emotions, I think, unnerved her.

But art is emotion. We forget that sometimes. Now that our minds and bodies are slowly emerging from a state of high stress, we likely have many pent-up emotions to shed. And for those who work in any type of caregiver role, like my friend, the stress of the pandemic is still playing out.

I suggested that she dabble for a bit. I pointed her toward the weekly two-hour classes at a local art gallery where she could try her hand at anything from photography to felt sculpture. I reminded her the point was just to have fun exploring something new. She’d need to avoid expectations of either “being good” at that new medium or of “finding my new art.”

The fact is we’ve all changed in the past year and a half. If our old favorite past-times are no longer calling to us, maybe it’s because somehow, we moved beyond them. It’s not to say we won’t ever come back to them, but maybe if we dip a toe into some other mediums, we’ll come back to them from a new perspective or in a whole new style.

There’s the art we feel called to do well, which requires practice and discipline. Then there’s the art we feel called to do simply because it increases our joy and gives us energy. Those of us who’ve made art our professions may be plugging along trying to force practice and discipline when really what our souls need right now are joy and energy.

It’s time for this physician, too, to heal herself.

By Teresa R. Funke

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Forget Yourself in Your Art

A friend loaned me the DVD, Evolve Your Brain: the Science of Changing Your Mind, by Dr. Joe Dispenza. I’m aware of Dr. Joe and have read one of his books, so I knew to expect some interesting science around how our minds and emotions create our lives, but about halfway through the lecture, he said something that fits perfectly in this blog. He said, “My definition of creativity is when I forget about myself.”

He went on to explain that when we’re immersed in creation, we forget everything around us and time slips away. He explained that we’re having so much fun we want to elongate the moment. At the same time, we get more present. Interestingly, in that process, we are reorganizing our brains to think differently.

One of my most popular posts on this blog, “It’s About Time Finding You,” has to do with time slipping away when we create, but I like Joe’s explanation that it’s because we forget about ourselves. He talks about the frontal lobe of the brain and how it shuts out distractions and negative self-talk, but to me, it’s even more interesting than that.

Because when I’m creating, I do lose a sense of self in that sometimes it feels like what I’m writing is coming from somewhere outside of me. In other ways, though, I’m aware that in those moments, I’m experiencing my best self. A self that is confident and energized and filled with passion and purpose. A self that is not worrying about whether anyone will read my words, but solely focused on the challenge of getting them down. A self that is full of possibility and potential. A self that is happy.

Creativity brings great things into our world. Art and inventions that improve the lives of many. But first, it delivers an awakening to the creator. It pulls us out of the mundane and into the magic. I’m sure it does rewire our brains, but I’m also sure it rewires our hearts. We grow through creativity. Any toddler could show you that.

So, set some time aside each day to create or even just to think about what you’d like to create. It is not a waste of time. It is not less important than all of the things on your to-do list. It is not indulgent. It’s essential.

Forget yourself for a bit in your art today. Then marvel at the rewired, re-energized, renewed “you” that emerges.

By Teresa R. Funke

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