Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 18

Is It Ever Positive to Be Negative?

How many times have you been told to “focus on the positive” or “look on the bright side” or “count your blessings?” All of those things are important, and I try to do them as often as possible, but what happens when a negative thought or reaction creeps in? If we believe too firmly the advice above, we find ourselves feeling guilty or ashamed of our negative thoughts, and that brings our energy down even further.

That’s what I experienced this week. Something happened that was all kinds of good, yet my immediate response was to feel a bit slighted. I knew I was probably overreacting and that many of my friends would be surprised to hear I’d had even a touch of cynicism about the whole affair. But there it was, nagging me.

So, I decided to test my concern. I e-mailed a trusted friend to tell him what happened, and he rightly pointed out that the good far outweighed the bad in this case. But he did not judge me for having had the negative thought in the first place. That’s why he’s the one I chose to e-mail.

We are told to stifle our egos, but that’s not really possible, is it? Even though I recognized I was responding from a place of ego, that did not make the feeling any less real. I tried to stuff my negative thought and move on, but that rarely works. Thoughts have a way of worming out of the holes in which we bury them.

By embracing vulnerability and telling my friend, “Hey, I know this may be stupid, but this is how I’m feeling,” I was able to release the emotion. Only then was I able to fully embrace all the good that had come from the situation.

It’s a worthy goal to try to focus on the positive. But too much of anything is rarely the answer. So, if a negative thought or emotion arises, don’t beat yourself up. It can serve a purpose too. By delving into what brought on my reaction and talking to my friend, I was able to see what was really bothering me. I felt more prepared to deal with a circumstance like that in the future. And it felt good to realize my strong reaction came from a positive place – the passion and pride I feel for the work I do. From negative to positive; it can come full circle if you first let it be.

Teresa R. Funke

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An Unexpected Addiction

After a year of pandemic isolation, you would think I’d have had enough of silence. As someone who is always “in her head,” I feel like during all this alone time I’ve cycled through just about every thought a person could have related to our current predicament, not to mention the state of the world, and the future of all of humanity.

So, imagine my surprise when I was reading The Soul-Sourced Entrepreneur by Christine Kane and recognized myself in her passage about “input addiction.”

“Input demands the incessant, knee-jerk activity of ‘checking,’” she writes, and goes on to explain that the minute we experience even a moment of boredom or downtime these days, we immediately reach to fill it by checking our phone or e-mail or the latest news update.

I’ve prided myself for years on not being addicted to my phone or to social media or any of the other harmful distractions we hear so much about. It was alarming to realize that during the pandemic, I had slipped into that addiction without even realizing it. I’ve been checking my e-mail obsessively hoping for . . . what? An e-mail that would “save” my business, or offer me something to focus on other than pandemic challenges, or just lift my spirits? I went from checking social media only briefly in the morning and evening to scanning it several times a day. I kept my phone near me at all times in case I missed a text.

There are lots of reasons why I struggled to feel creative this past year, but there’s now no doubt that my coping mechanism for feeling “stuck” was to reach for something to distract my mind. If I was reading, learning, even ruminating, I felt like at least I was doing something productive. I mean, I wasn’t just staring at the wall all day. Now I’m realizing it might have been better if I had occasionally stared at the wall, if I hadn’t been so terrified of the boredom I was feeling and had learned to sit with it instead.

“Sometimes our thoughts need space to move around, to find their own connections, and to become what ultimately lands us successfully on the other side of that (creative) tension: insight.” Christine wrote.

I thought I was doing that this past year when I would make myself meditate. But I was really just crossing meditation off my to-do list. Not only that, I put all kinds of pressure on my meditation practice, expecting great insights to come from it and feeling constantly disappointed when they didn’t.

So yesterday, rather than turning on a podcast while I did my yoga, I kept the house in total silence. I paid attention to how my body moved and just noticed the thoughts that appeared as I slipped into each pose. This is how I used to practice yoga before all the unrest of 2020 when I started listening to podcasts while exercising to help me make sense of it all.

To be honest, it felt weird at first to be practicing yoga in silence. Way too quiet, and I could feel the seconds ticking by. For the first several minutes, I had to resist the urge to reach for my phone. I had to stop my brain from coaxing me into a place of distraction with thoughts like, “Just do the five-minute news update. It’s your responsibility to know what’s going on in the world” or “You could listen to one of your personal-development apps. Self-improvement goes with yoga, right?” or “Maybe some music wouldn’t hurt.”

Then slowly I started to remember what it felt like to be in my body and not in my head. As soon as that happened, I sabotaged myself again. I thought, “Okay, now the insights will come.” I pushed that demand aside and did my best to just breathe into the moment and feel that was enough.

I did not get any great insights in that quiet space, but I definitely felt more grounded after that yoga session than I have in a long time. Yesterday, I went back to checking my social media only once in the morning and once in the evening. I had to remind myself several times that was the rule. I started worrying I was falling behind in my podcasts, so I deleted a few to take the pressure off. Now I need to work on my e-mail addiction. That one will be harder.

It’s no wonder I’ve always had my best ideas in the shower. That’s the one place where nothing distracts me. Christine recommends you set a timer each day for ten minutes and do nothing in that time. To get back to the old me, I think I’ll need more than ten minutes. So, I’m looking for those spaces in my life I can fill with stillness and quiet, which is exactly what I thought I would not be doing when the restrictions lifted. I thought I’d be doing the opposite. Life just keeps spinning us for a loop, doesn’t it?

Teresa R. Funke

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Not All Writers Are Narcissists

My book club recently reached a full consensus about a book: none of us liked it. In fact, four of the ten chose not to finish reading it. The conversation about the book was entertaining because whenever there’s agreement, people can speak freely, and some of their comments about how much they disliked the book were actually pretty funny. The writer in me, though, felt the need to defend the author now and then. Of everyone, I was probably the one who came closest to liking the novel. I mean, the premise was original, the structure was intriguing, and the author had clearly done her research.

Last night I was watching the PBS documentary Hemingway. In it, one of the commentators repeated an old adage that I hate. She said “all” writers are narcissists. How can you not be a narcissist if you’re happy sitting alone in a room for twelve hours engrossed in your own thoughts? I’m not sure what overly privileged writers she counts among her friends, but most of my writer and artist friends are in no position to spend twelve hours a day musing over their own brilliance. Most of us have full or part-time jobs outside of our writing, or we have kids at home who need our attention, or we’re busy running our own businesses. This concept of the spoiled artist who cares for nothing but their art really annoys me.

To be honest, I feel sorry for any true narcissist who wanders into the creative realm. If the definition of narcissism is: “a mental condition in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance, a deep need for excessive attention and admiration, troubled relationships, and a lack of empathy for others,” they’re going to hate being artists. This whole industry is built to tear us down as much as build us up.

Sure, I can see those traits in someone like Hemingway, but he certainly suffered for them. And while I know people like to think genius requires suffering, suffering itself isn’t something we should wish on anyone. I know plenty of well-adjusted writers and artists who produce great work. Maybe it’s time we focus on them for a change.

But maybe it’s also time I admit that, yes, we writers and artists do produce our work first and foremost for ourselves. We create what we want to create blindly trusting others will like it, too, and see it’s value. That might sound narcissistic to some, but it’s not. It’s an attempt at connection. We’re saying, “This is me. This is what I can do. This is what I believe. This is what I’ve studied. This is what fills me up. I hope it does the same for you.” But isn’t that what anyone thinks who is pursuing work they love?

I stared for several minutes at the author photo in the back of the book my group had read. She looked really cool, like someone I might like to know. I kind of apologized to her picture: sorry we tore your book apart. But thank you for the time you spent researching such an unusual topic. I learned things I didn’t know. And thanks for having the guts to finish a book that so clearly lit you up, even if it didn’t do the same for us. And congrats on all your accolades. If my group was not your audience, I’m glad someone else was. After all, not everyone likes Hemingway either.

Teresa R. Funke

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You Be You, and I’ll Be Me

I just finished a World War II novel called Salt to the Sea by Ruta Sepetys. Then I started watching the Masterpiece show Atlantic Crossing. People ask me often how after 30 years of researching, writing, and speaking about World War II, I could still be so interested in the subject. “Don’t you get tired of it?” they ask.

But how do you grow weary of a subject that encompasses the full range of human experience and emotion? A time period that brought out the absolute worst in humanity but also the best? A war that spanned 50 countries and countless millions of personal stories?

Who can say why some passions are fleeting—like my brief desire to learn ballroom dancing— and some stay with us for a lifetime? Who can say why some of us feel “called” to a profession from an early age and spend our entire careers in that field, and others move from interest to interest, job to job? Who can say why something can feel so good for so long, and then one day it just doesn’t?

“Follow your passion,” we’re told. But the expression should be “follow your passions,” whatever they may be and however they may change. In this country, the first question we ask a stranger is “What do you do?” We want someone’s work to define them. If someone changes careers often, rather than admiring their constant curiosity and dedication to learning, we call them “flaky” or “unsettled.”

We make it difficult for people to move beyond a former passion. When a lifelong tennis player decides she no longer enjoys the sport, her friends pressure her into continuing it, reminding her you “can’t abandon something you love.”

I say, why not? If what we formally loved no longer feels invigorating or inspiring or healthy, why not let it go? Passion is personal. It’s for me to say what brings me joy, no one else.

So maybe you quit one of your passions and see how that feels. You can always go back to it later, if it calls to you. If not, you’ll have the memories, lessons, and friendships it once brought your way and can feel good about that.

But if a lifelong passion still brings you joy, hold onto it, even if people say you should have outgrown that by now, or you’re too old to continue it, or you should try something else for a change. Hold onto it not because some people admire you for sticking to it, but because it still fills you up.

A friend recently decided to give up something he was known for, and his friends rebelled. They teased him and questioned him and tempted him back. But he stuck to his guns. And he feels lighter and happier now.

So . . . you be you, and I’ll be me. You follow your passions, and I’ll follow mine. And we’ll take that energy we feel when we’re being true to ourselves and put it back into the world in positive ways.

Teresa R. Funke

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The Return of Hope

I’ve written often about hope in this blog. As you know, I believe it’s nearly impossible to sustain a life in the arts without it. And hope is certainly what continues to get us through the aftermath of 2020. Interestingly, it is my relationship to hope that has undergone the most change for me in the past year and led to what I hope is the most growth.

My ever-practical husband often says to me, “Now, don’t get your hopes up.” He might be referring to a raise he might receive or a trip we might be able to take or a gift he’s trying to secure for me. And nearly always my response is, “Too late.”

I’ve always been the person with the packed calendar, the one brimming with ideas for both my personal and professional life, the one who made sure I had things to look forward to. Until this past year, when lockdowns and social distancing cleared my calendar. In the early days of the pandemic, I refused to look at my calendar to see where I was supposed to have been that day, what I was supposed to have been doing. Instead, I took my brain to a foggy land where time stood still and I didn’t have to think about what I was missing. I surrendered to quieter days, but in doing so, I shut down my ideas and also my feelings.

My usual optimistic self got pinned down by an alter ego who didn’t trust in anything and refused to get her hopes up again. At first, I thought maybe that was my growth. After all, I was no longer blindsided when the disappointments came. I expected them. But it didn’t feel like growth because there was no energy in it.

The real growth this last year was not in teaching myself to accept disappointment, it was in realizing that it’s okay to feel disappointed. It’s also okay to feel angry and frustrated and worried and sad. Feeling those things is not a denial of hope. It doesn’t make you less of an optimistic or faithful person. It makes you human. It makes you strong.

With spring finally here and the vaccines rolling out and plans starting to form, I can see hope standing before me. The alter ego that had pinned me down has moved on, and hope has her hand outstretched to help me stand again. She’s smiling at me like an old friend. She’s brushing me off and reassuring me there’s no need to rush. After all, I was down for quite a while. I can lean on her when I’m ready.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, “I’m ready.”

Teresa R. Funke

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Waiting for My Life’s Porpoise – A Re-entry Story

I got my first dose of the COVID-19 vaccine this week. I was both excited and nervous, which is exactly how I feel about the concept of life going “back to normal.” For a year now, I’ve complained bitterly about pandemic-imposed isolation, boredom, separation, and loss. I’ve longed for the things I miss, like eating in restaurants, listening to live music, or going to a party. I’ve learned to tolerate–but have never gotten used to–the feeling of one day bleeding into the next. I’ve grown to love and hate my own company. I’ve learned a lot about myself this year, partly because my inner observer had nowhere else to put her attention.

So now that most of my friends are getting the vaccine and the weather is finally improving, I’m aware that my circles will soon open up again. I should be nothing but excited by the prospect, but I’m dragging my feet. I feel like a toddler sucking my thumb at the edge of the pool and trying to gather the courage to jump in. It’s not just that the virus is still out there, it’s not just that the mask mandates are still in place, it’s not just that the world is still a scary place where you can get gunned down in your local grocery store. It’s also that I’m not sure I want to go back to the person I was before.

That person had a hard time saying no, even when she felt too tired or grumpy to attend an event. She worked too much and oftentimes on projects that no longer held her interest. She was so convinced that boredom would kill her that she filled every waking moment. And before the pandemic slowed everything down, that person measured her self-worth by what she got done each day. That person was searching outside herself for fulfillment.

I was that person for so long, though, that once I wasn’t her anymore, I had no idea who I was. After a year, you’d think I would have figured it out. I’d like to say I took this time to reinvent and emerge a better person, but the truth is, in many ways, I’m more confused than ever.

A friend of mine told me an old story to make me feel better. She said, “It’s like you were in the ocean in a boat with plenty of supplies. You had planned out your course and were moving steadily along. Then one day a big wave wiped out your navigation system and you didn’t know where you were going. Then another big wave washed all your supplies overboard. Then another wave knocked the boat out from under you and you were alone in the water. In time, though, a porpoise came along and swam you to a new land.”

I sighed. I could tell you about when in the year 2020 it felt like my navigation system left me. And the day my supplies went overboard. I’m less clear on when the boat was knocked out from under me because it feels like for a long time I was clinging to that last piece of broken wood until it, too, floated away.

So now here I am, treading water in a wide ocean, and trusting that the porpoise will show up soon and that this new land will be the right place for me. It better be, because there’s no going back.

Teresa R. Funke

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Become Empty in Order to Heal

I heard mention the other day of the concept of “becoming a hollow bone.” I did a bit of internet research and found that Frank Fools Crow, a revered Lakota Holy Man, said in his work as a healer, he became like a hollow bone in order to be a source for all creation to flow through him and serve others. I’m not an expert on nor do I have lived experience with this practice or tradition, so I will say no more, but I will tell you why that image gave me hope.

We Americans are rugged individualists. We value our sense of autonomy and strive to maintain control over our own lives. We tell our kids to be good to others and to care for those in need, but always with a whispered caveat: “Remember, God helps those who help themselves.” We have a hard time asking for help when we need it and a hard time offering help without judgement (stated or otherwise). We were taught in school that America was a place of equal opportunity and as long as you worked hard, you would succeed. We now know that wasn’t always true for many of our citizens.

As artists we’re often called on to advance social justice even as we’re told to keep our opinions to ourselves. We’re expected to be eccentrics who “talk” to our invisible muses, but also to be able to move efficiently and diplomatically through polite society. Many artists know what it feels like to be hollow to the bone when inspiration strikes. It often feels like what we’re creating came from somewhere outside of ourselves, but we have to be careful how we phrase that. We wouldn’t want to sound too religious or too woo-woo. And our egos wouldn’t want it to sound like we didn’t do the work or don’t deserve the credit.

Many artists know, though, when we empty ourselves, we’re often filled again with something powerful or beautiful that works through us to land on the canvas, the page, or the stage. We see and feel our audiences react from their souls with tears or laughter or even anger. We know that the work we’re doing is not just for us, it’s meant to connect us all. Sometimes that looks like a political poster to be carried at rallies, sometimes it looks like a children’s book about fairies.

To keep creating, I must trust that my work as a writer has had meaning and has hopefully advanced certain causes and ways of thinking, but I am able to do so only because all of my art has been created from a place of authenticity. It comes from my passion, my curiosity, my ever-growing view of a just world, my love of history and language and art. It comes from opening myself up and emptying myself out and letting myself be surprised and transformed. It comes from allowing a spirit to move through me, however you choose to define that spirit.

Going back to the concept of healing, I believe good art can heal, but sometimes laughter helps us heal, sometimes a good cry does the same. Don’t be too quick to judge how a thoughtful artist chooses to show up in this complicated world. Give them space to be the conduits they’re called to be. Because some days each of us need a piece of art to fire us up and some days we need it to provide a place of rest. Sometimes we need it to open our eyes and sometimes we need it to soften our hearts.

This past difficult year has taught me, reluctantly, the importance of emptying myself and embracing the mind of a beginner again as I learn and relearn what art and social justice mean to me. It’s still scary for me to feel so hollow, but I’m starting to feel the whisper of spirit flowing through me in a whole new way. Whatever direction my art takes, I know it will come from a desire to serve, to be a healer in the best way I personally know how in this time, at this moment, knowing it (and I) will always be a work in progress.

Teresa R. Funke

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Forever Changed – A Pandemic Anniversary

The historian in me thinks it’s important to mark the one-year anniversary of the pandemic. The writer in me would rather not. Maybe it’s insecurity – there are far better writers than me sharing their thoughts right now. Maybe it’s sensitivity – I’ve just started to bounce back from a really hard year and I don’t want to revisit the pain. Maybe it’s my forward-thinking nature which would rather focus on what’s to come.

One of the podcasts I follow has been doing short retrospectives on how we all reacted to the start of the pandemic, and I have to work hard not to cry when I listen. The “lost year” started for my husband and me on Friday, March 13, 2020. The day before, I’d been at a middle school speaking to 600 students. The author visit went as it usually would, except for exchanging fist bumps and toe taps with the teachers and students instead of handshakes and hugs. That night, my husband and I went to a networking event at the local dinner theater, followed by dinner and the show. We noticed a smaller turnout than usual. I heard a few people had cancelled out of caution regarding this new illness, but the rest of us thought we were safe if we didn’t touch each other, and besides, it was really just a bad flu.

The next day, we awoke to discover my husband’s company had ordered everyone to work from home. And I watched as my inbox lit up with some e-mails cancelling my upcoming talks and classes and others from my museum buyers saying they were shutting down and were suspending book orders for the foreseeable future. In a matter of days, all three of my revenue streams had stopped flowing.

Back then, I didn’t want to think about how long the pandemic might last. I couldn’t have imagined that one year later my husband would still be working at home, my revenue streams would still be only trickling, and I’d have endured twelves months of shared worry, fear, grief, anger, disillusionment, and boredom with my closest friends and family members.

I also couldn’t have imagined how a year of isolation and reflection would have brought me to new and better ways of thinking about the things that matter most to me.

We can’t reflect on a year of pandemic without also remembering the social unrest, political turmoil, and natural disasters that also weighed heavily on us. And that’s when I start to feel overwhelmed.

I stored all that stress in my body, actualizing new aches and pains and sometimes minor panic attacks.

I processed all that stress in my mind, thinking constantly of all the things I could or should be doing.

I moved all that stress through my heart, sending as much love as possible into our hurting world and holding back just enough for myself to get me through.

I tried giving over all that stress to my soul, asking my Higher Self to transform it into something that would help me grow and better serve others.

I held that stress back from my art, and maybe that was a mistake. In trying to protect my creative spirit from all that pain, I inadvertently shut out inspiration.

What will I remember from this year? I’ll remember how it brought us together and how it drove us apart. I’ll remember songs sung from Italian balconies and songs sung in remembrance of those who died. I’ll remember long walks in new neighborhoods and long zoom calls with family members I missed. I’ll remember bundling up to sit far apart on a chilly night with my book club and lying under my warm blankets some mornings wondering how I was going to get through another day. I’ll remember my fear the first time I went to the grocery store during the lockdown and the joy on my neighbor’s face when she snatched up her sleeve and shouted, “Look, I got my first shot!”

I embraced writing this post when I realized it didn’t have to be perfect. It didn’t have to encompass everything we’ve been through in the past year because no single post could ever do that. We’ll be processing this time for years to come. It will continue to work through our bodies and souls and show up in our art. We are not “through” this experience after one year. We are “in” this experience for the rest of our lives. Studying history has taught me that, but so has studying grief, and creativity, and love.

We will carry these lessons with us always, and we will travel this journey together, sometimes thinking back, sometimes looking forward, but forever changed.

Teresa R. Funke

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The Artist as Witness

I was conducting a virtual school visit with a fifth-grade class the other day, talking about my children’s books about World War II, each of which are inspired by real people I interviewed. I’d already explained to the kids I wasn’t alive during the war, so I was surprised when one boy asked, “Did you witness anything you’ve written about?” The word “witness” struck me, but since we were almost out of time, I went with the quick and obvious answer, “No, I didn’t witness the events because I wasn’t born yet. I did visit some of the places I wrote about and I did lots of research, but I didn’t witness it.”

Oddly, though, I have felt like a witness to history when I’ve conducted my interviews and written my stories. And then a few days later, I heard author Ariel Burger put it this way on an On Being podcast, “When memory is transmitted, it makes witnesses. Witnesses are activated people who now are telling other people’s stories.” He goes on to ask what a community is, if not a group of people telling other people’s stories.

I did not physically witness the attack on Pearl Harbor, but I felt the ground move, “as if you were walking on ice skates,” as one woman told me. I did not live through the day-to-day struggles of the war, but I did feel it in my soul when one woman told me she cried every day when she thought of her husband fighting overseas. With my inner eye, I saw the American flag come down and the Japanese flag go up on Wake Island, a memory that stayed with the gentleman I interviewed for his entire life.

We artists and writers are witnesses. We are “activated.” We keep the stories alive. We do it for our families when we pass on oral tradition and for the public when we capture moments of time in our art. As Rabbi Burger says, being a witness is different than being a spectator. It takes courage and strength. It asks us to open our hearts to carry a story for someone else. Sometimes it means telling their story when they can’t. It can be hard and heavy at times, but it can also take you into places of joy and wonder. To me, community includes everyone. The human experience is not a monolith. And even in times of great strife, not everyone will experience those times in the same way, which is why we need to hear from all our storytellers and we need a diverse group of witnesses to capture those stories.

We writers and artists agreed to be witnesses when we undertook our art, but anyone can be a witness. Whose story will you carry today?

Teresa R. Funke

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Stories are Emotion – How Do You Feel?

It seemed to me many of my friends were feeling more down than usual the past couple of weeks. Blame it on the weather or the fact that Mercury was in retrograde or the ever-present worries about the pandemic. One of my friends apologized for “complaining,” saying that since I write novels about World War II, I’d probably remind her we have it better than people did then and tell her to count her blessings. But that’s not what I was thinking at all.

Hardship is never easy, and these have been really tough times for so many of us. We live in a culture that admonishes us to “look on the bright side” or “pull ourselves together” or to choose action over “complaining.” But all of those admonishments are just another way to tell us not to feel. They encourage us to stuff our emotions deep down inside because that’s where they belong. You can only do that for so long, though, before they come boiling to the surface or turn into physical pain or lead to depression.

We call the World War II generation the “Greatest Generation” because of all they survived, and I’m filled with admiration for them. We think of them as being stoic, but I’ve interviewed many people who cried when they told me their stories, though those events had happened 50, 60, or even 70 years ago. The emotions were still there because they were inseparable from the story.

It might be true that many of us can’t compare what we’re living through now with what the people of WWII endured, but it’s also true that 30 years from now, some young person will say to us, “How did you survive the pandemic? It sounded so hard and so sad and so scary.”  And many of us—especially those who worked in the overflowing hospitals, those whose loved ones died with no one by their side, those who lost their businesses or their homes—will cry when they tell us what this experience was like for them.

Our emotions are inseparable from our stories. And that’s okay. Tell your stories.

By Teresa R. Funke

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