Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 20

Art Beyond Gender

My husband does most of the baking in our house and has for the 29 years of our marriage. It’s one of his favorite pastimes. Yet after all these years, it’s still not unusual to show up at our friends’ dinner party with one of his delicious strawberry rhubarb pies or orange chocolate cakes and have our hosts thank me instead of him. I remind them again that Roger is the artist in this case, not me.

I’ve actually had a few people criticize me over the years for “making” my poor husband do most of the cooking and baking. It’s odd to think in the 21st century such an activity could still be considered “women’s work.”

For most of history, women’s crafts, things like needlework, sewing, or china painting, have not been considered “high art.” Women’s art has also traditionally sold for less, been displayed less often, and been presented with fewer awards. All of this is fact. Men, too, have been relegated mostly to certain types of art, although they’ve had more freedom to wander among the styles.

When a football player admits he likes knitting or a female artist takes up chainsaw sculpture it makes national news. Why? Why are we still so hung up on putting gender to art? If it’s true that art is “the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination,” then shouldn’t anyone be able to create any art using any tools or mediums they choose?

So here we are in the holiday season and the “traditional” divisions of labor are taking place. Many of my female friends are posting on social media about the cookies they made and the homemade gifts they’ve created. Some of my male friends are showing off their outdoor Christmas light displays or the wooden ornaments they cut out for their wives to paint. And that’s all perfect if that’s what you enjoy doing! But I’ll tell you right now, no one wrapped a more beautiful present than my cousin Geoff and some of my female friends have concocted some the most original cocktails you could imagine.

It’s been a long year. We’re all exhausted. So, there’s never been a better time to cast aside all the outdated “rules” about which art is macho and which is ladylike. Pick up a needle, gentlemen. Fire up the table saw, ladies. Art is about owning who we are, not who we’re “supposed” to be.

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When to Play it Safe and When to Trust Your Desire

Brené Brown recently interviewed Dolly Parton on her Unlocking Us podcast. Dolly said two very different things that have been swimming around in my mind. The first was a comment about the pandemic. She said, “You can’t be too safe, but you can sure be too sorry . . .”

Her second comment came in response to Brené’s question, “What’s the first thing you do when you have to be brave?” Dolly replied, “I always just think my desire to do it is greater than my fear of it. I just pray about it and go.”

It’s interesting to me that such a talented, hardworking, ambitious woman could admit to sometimes playing it safe and other times leaning into her bravery. As an artist, business owner, and devoted family woman, like Dolly, I can relate on so many levels.

We’re often led to believe those who get ahead do so by swallowing their fear and taking great risks. Certainly, Dolly has taken many chances in her life that paid off.  But she has also often embraced her more steady, practical side.

So, how do we know when it’s time to play it safe and when it’s time to swallow our fears and go? I think it comes down to one word she said, “desire.” She does not mean desire as in, “I just want to do this, therefore I will regardless of the outcome.” She means desire as in a calling or a passion. To test whether she’s experiencing a “want” verses a “calling,” she prays. Others would choose to meditate. Others would lean into their intuition. One way or another, we all know when we are meant to do something in service to ourselves or others and when we are not.

In some parts of my life and business I’ve been playing it safe far too long. I’m actively working right now on trusting that my desire is stronger than my fear. In other areas, though, I’m playing it safe because that’s what feels right to me. To do otherwise would raise my stress level, which affects my health and inhibits my ability to think clearly.

There will be those who judge me for both of my leanings. Some may even say so out loud, but that’s okay. It won’t be the first time people have advised me to go against my inner knowing, and it won’t be the last. And there will be times I second-guess my own decisions, because that’s the curse of being human. In the end, though, I trust I’ll look back and be glad I sometimes played it safe and proud of the times I didn’t let fear stand in the way of my truest desires.

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What’s Your Poison?

I was thinking today about a fundraiser my husband, daughter, and I attended a little over a year ago for our local museum. We dressed according to the theme and enjoyed free food and drink. I had every intention of being on my best professional behavior — after all, I had been hired as a speaker for the museum not that long before the event. But when we got there, the appetizers and cocktails were so tasty and the band so engaging, I found myself letting go. My daughter, of course, egged me on. We had a few silly moments on the dance floor I still enjoy remembering. I didn’t go all-out crazy that night (I’m still a professional at heart), but it was a perfect night to blow off steam. To get out of my head and into my soul and body.

Maybe I’m thinking about that evening because here in Colorado we’re back at Level Red due to a spike in our positive COVID-19 cases. There were no in-person fundraisers this fall, and now there will be no holiday parties. My friend has cancelled her annual holiday brunch, the only time of year I reconnect with many of those women. Our extended family is not flying out here to celebrate Christmas with us. We’ve all been asked to stay home as much as possible.

Without the distractions of other people, I’ve noticed lately I’m growing weary of my own company. It’s true my husband is here 24/7, but he’s busy working remotely. Much of the day, I’m keeping company with myself, going over every thought, treating every tiny decision as if it’s vitally important, attempting to distract myself from this constant state of underlying boredom, trying not to judge myself for all of the above.

This is nothing new, I’ve always been this way, too much in my head. But before the pandemic, I could lose myself now and then in visiting with people or leaning into an experience. Now I can’t run away from me. There’s nowhere to run.

There’s a scene in The Count of Monte Cristo where the Count describes the theory of slowly poisoning yourself a bit each day to develop a tolerance for the poison so it can no longer kill you. I used to think one of the worst existences I could imagine was one in which I was stuck at home most of the time, away from people, unable to travel, unable to experience in-person art, unable to chat with strangers. Now I’m living it day by day.

But I’m discovering that what once seemed intolerable, is more than survivable. These past few months have shown us all that in loss there is still love. There are memories that sustain us and hopes that drive us and reservoirs of strength within us we had not previously tapped. If I can’t look for distractions outside of myself, I can learn to corral my scattered thoughts and worries through meditation or journaling or even writing this blog. I can learn to sit with my emotions when they arise rather than hiding from them. I can learn to have more patience with myself.

What’s your poison? That thing you once thought you might not survive? Have you ever been forced to build a tolerance for that very thing? If not, maybe it’s time to start taking your daily dose. Remember the words of German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”

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The Moral High Ground is Not as Stable as it Seems

My husband and I were walking in our neighborhood when a car came racing by. I estimate the driver was going 10 miles over the speed limit. There was a blind curve coming up, and I’d seen some kids on bikes earlier, so without thinking, I jabbed my finger in his direction to tell him to slow down. He looked right at me when I did it.

“Great,” I thought. “Now he’s going to come back and beat me up.”

I imagined what I’d say if he circled the block, jumped out of his car, and raged toward me. Everyone is so on edge right now; it wasn’t hard to believe that could happen. I knew I’d start with a sincere apology. “I’m sorry. That was really rude of me to point at you that way, it’s just that you were going fast and there are kids on bikes and I didn’t know how else to get your attention.” My hope of course, was that he’d accept my apology, admit his error, and drive off at a safer speed, but I sort of doubted that’s how it would go down.

So, if I knew it was a risk to try to correct his behavior, why did I do it? Well, partly out of concern for the safety of the kids in our neighborhood, that’s true. But also, partly because in a world that lately feels out of my control, I probably just wanted to feel for a moment like I had some sway. In my own little corner of the world, I felt justified in being judge, jury, and law enforcement all wrapped up in one.

A couple of evenings later, my husband was driving and we were navigating through a tricky parking area. We didn’t observe the narrow crosswalk we were driving through until we were in it. I turned and saw a woman just outside my window gesturing at the crosswalk as if to say, “You cut me off! I have the right of way. Shame on you.”

I didn’t notice her soon enough to mouth the words “I’m sorry,” but she wouldn’t have seen it anyway through my mask. Now we were in the wrong and had caused distress to someone else. It felt really bad to feel judged by her, even though she had every right to be angry.

And so it goes. One minute we have the moral high ground, another minute someone else does. It’s tempting here to say the only thing we truly have control over is our own thoughts, feelings, and reactions, but that’s too simplistic, because no matter how hard we try to remain patient, kind, empathetic, understanding, and loving, there are moments that tip us over the edge.

Once a mistake has been made, once a disagreement has transpired, what we can do is recognize our role in it, because conflict requires two parties. Admitting our responsibility, apologizing, forgiving ourselves and the other, these are things that do remain in our control. And the quicker we can do them, the less power the altercation holds over us. Anger, resentment, frustration, and annoyance take energy, even if you believe they’re justified.

So, find a positive way to release them, through your art, through prayer or meditation, through action taken for the higher good, through whatever works for you. Because now more than ever, we need to save our energy for building up rather than tearing down.

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I Wanna Dance with Somebody

Two couples came over last weekend for a socially distanced, outside-in-the-cold birthday gathering for one of our friends. When he arrived, he had the “Celebration” song by Kool & The Gang playing on his cell phone. “Let’s dance!” he said.

My husband and our other friends stood up to shake their booties. I got up too, then I just stared at the ground, frozen. I couldn’t remember if I start off on my left foot or my right or what to do with my arms. It seems my Covid-era feet have got no rhythm.

My next thought was to wonder what other creative muscles have atrophied in this time of coronavirus. I still sing now and then, mostly in the shower, but the other day a few friends burst into song on a Zoom call, and I noticed I was way off key. I haven’t written anything since this pandemic started other than this blog. I did take an art class, but my own mother asked why the mandala I drew looked like a squashed cantaloupe.

I can still recite my favorite Shakespeare sonnet (I just tried and it’s still there). And just yesterday I sent a creative idea to a friend to help with her holiday sales, so I guess my creative juices are still flowing a little.

I think what really scared me about that dance moment was wondering if I’d forgotten how to have fun. Or worse yet, if I’d ceased to be fun. 2020 has been a heavy year. I’m quite sure I haven’t laughed as much as I usually do. I’m pretty sure I’ve worried more than I ever have. I’ve accepted boredom as a constant underlying state. Have I become a drag?

Maybe, but I don’t think it’s a permanent condition. I can remember what it felt like to clap along to a song at our favorite music venue, or to savor an unexpected flavor at a local restaurant, or to step out of an airport and feel the atmosphere of a whole new place.

When I was in my 20s, I didn’t own a bike. When I finally got another one, it had been more than ten years since I’d ridden. Everyone said it would come back to me, but when I put my feet on the pedals, I doubted that. I got off to a wobbly start but then it did come back to me. That promise had been true.

So that’s what I’m holding onto, the promise that one day, when the pandemic is over, we’ll go back to hugging, and dancing, and singing into the same microphone, and it will not be something I take for granted. It will be a thrill.

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This Feels Like Morning Sickness

The way I’ve been feeling the past few months reminds me of having morning sickness. “Morning sickness,” by the way, is a misnomer. While it does often strike in the waking hours, it’s just as likely to hit you any time during the day when a certain sight, smell, or taste sets you off. At least, that’s how I remember it.

With the coronavirus numbers rising again, the election uncertainty, the social unrest, and dreaded winter looming, it’s no wonder my morning sickness has gotten worse the past few days. I was lucky not to experience much nausea with my firstborn, but I definitely had it the second time around with my daughter. At the time, my biggest responsibility was taking care of my toddler-aged son, but when those waves of queasiness washed over me, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull up the covers. I didn’t, though. I couldn’t. I had this little Tasmanian devil swirling around I had to keep out of harm’s way. So, I downed some Saltine crackers and soldiered on.

This current bout of morning sickness is making it hard to keep up on the necessities of running my little business, to say nothing of trying to find the energy, concentration, or imagination to be creative. Mostly I just want to curl up on the couch with a book that will take me out of this world and into another or with a TV show that will make me laugh at the absurdity of the human condition. But I’ve been resisting that urge, at least until evening.

I’m not at my best, I admit that. But even when we’re not at our best, we can still contribute something. We can still take care of the people in our lives who need us most and serve the people we work with and for to the best of our addled ability.

The only good thing about morning sickness was knowing it was brought on by the life I was creating. As long as I was sick, it meant the baby was growing and developing. It was a small price to pay for the love I could already feel expanding and the better world I could imagine once my new baby arrived.

We’re feeling sick because we care. Because we love. Because we want so badly for things to be better. Because we want something good to come from all of this.

I was listening to my friend interview world-class clarinetist, Anthony McGill. Anthony was talking about a point in his life when he started to wonder about his purpose beyond “just making beautiful music.” In that moment, I thought, “Oh, please, just do that. Make me some beautiful music right now. My ailing soul needs some peace and comfort.”

Whatever you can do right now, do it. No matter how big or small. Restore a little order to your home, try something new, create from your heart, sit and breathe, and hang in there, because morning sickness passes. And when it does, we’ll need all our energy for the loving work that lies before us.

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What We Will Do When Time Starts Moving Again

Don’t ask me what I did this past week. It would tax my pandemic brain to tell you. I know I was busy from the time I awoke to the time I went to bed. I’m certain I kept up on daily chores and important routines, like cleaning the kitchen and exercising. I made an effort to tackle the never-ending tasks like e-mail and social media. I’m pretty sure I made a little progress on some of my larger projects.

But on Wednesday, at the end of another long day at home, I sat down to relax and said to my husband, “Wait, wasn’t I just here? Wasn’t I just sitting on this couch reading last night?  Don’t you feel stuck in time?”

In movies when characters are stuck in time, they literally freeze. It’s only the heroes (and sometimes the villains) who can walk among them with purpose and motion. When I was younger, I would’ve been quick to cast myself in the role of hero, the person who could still take action when no one else could, the person who would save the world. It’s a bit unsettling to realize in middle age I feel more like one of the frozen.

Some days I wish I were that character sitting motionless on the train station bench reading a book, oblivious to all the chaos going on around him. Other days I wish I were the woman stuck waving happily at a new arrival as if all is sunny and good. Some days, I’m more like the stationmaster checking my stopwatch as if all that matters is keeping the trains on time.  Other days, I feel like the character who’s looking up in awe, one of the first to see the danger arriving, and covering my mouth in fear and concern. On my best days, I like to believe I’m the character who, though frozen, is pointing the way for the heroes as they arrive to save us all.

In the spirit of self-kindness, I’m not beating myself up for no longer imagining myself as the kick-butt hero who saves the planet. If there’s one thing my career has taught me it’s that the small actions of ordinary people can also change the world. Maybe the guy on the bench is reading a book on anti-racism. Maybe the waving woman is welcoming a speaker for her non-profit fundraiser. Maybe by keeping the trains running, the stationmaster is enabling a congresswoman to get to her important hearing.

So, even while time seems lately to be standing still, I’m still writing checks, donating time, providing encouragement, promoting good works, expanding my learning, and trying to send love and light into the universe.

In the movies, when the clock starts ticking again, people often pick up where they left off, oblivious to how close they came to annihilation. But not always. In some films, they look around and realize in what seemed like a blink of an eye, their whole world has changed. I suspect that will be us. And the heroes will melt into the crowd and join the rest of us leading our small but purposeful lives, and we will all move forward together.

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How “We” Can Get “Ourselves” Through This

This morning I broke a record for the most times I’ve hit the snooze button on my alarm. I’m not proud of that fact, but in my pandemic world, there’s no strong reason to rush out of bed. Now, I know if you still have your full-time job or if you’re rising early to get your kids started on school, you might be disgusted to hear my confession. But this is an honest blog, so there you have it.

I’m a 7 on the Enneagram, and I recently heard a podcast in which a fellow 7 who is also a writer mentioned that what has changed for her since March is she no longer awakens brimming with creative ideas, and she misses that. I miss it too! I fantasize about waking up again with just one really creative idea.

While I’m still waiting for some of my revenue streams to bounce back, I do have plenty of other work and volunteer work to keep me busy. But some days, I feel like that’s all it is . . . staying busy.

I tuned in to a concert by Johnsmith the other day in which he said people often tell him, “Boy, you songwriters must be producing so much work now that you don’t have to be on the road all the time.” And he confessed that while he’s written a handful of songs, it’s hard to figure out what to write about. He said most people don’t realize that songwriting is a symbiotic thing. You write a song and then try it out on an audience and see how it fits. That piece of the process is missing now.

I have plenty of friends who are still producing good work. Some have maintained longstanding routines, like my colleague who does one new sketch per day. Some are under deadline and working away. Some are finding that more time at home really has given them incentive to undertake projects they’ve wanted to do for a while.

But for those of us who are social or adventurous beings, those of us who get energy from being around other people or trying something new, all this isolation doesn’t feed our creativity, it drains it.

To some I might sound privileged. How nice that I don’t have to work and can sleep in as long as I want, you might think. While it’s true I don’t have to work to survive (I’m lucky to have a spouse who has a good job), my business operates separately from our finances, so I do have to work. I’ve done everything I can to survive this pandemic. I’ve cut my expenses to the bone, I’ve applied for grants, and I’ve maintained some income from existing programs and sales channels. I could do more, of course. I admit that. But that would require creative energy that is lacking right now.

Today, we tried to go for an afternoon walk, but the smoke and ash from our very close wildfires drove us back inside. Not to mention that our neighbors had spotted a bear and her cubs just down the street! It’s hard to concentrate on writing when the bigger stories in the world are demanding my attention.

So, what can I do about my present situation? How about be patient? I don’t say that in some wise-woman way, I say it as truly all I can do. Eckhart Tolle writes that when we become enlightened, we don’t have to try to be one with ourselves anymore, we just are. No longer are we two beings, with “I” judging or praising “myself.”  We are just ourselves. “That mind-created duality is the root cause of all unnecessary complexity, of all problems and conflict in your life,” Tolle says in The Power of Now.

I’m far from enlightened, but I’m working on becoming one self. Ideally, I don’t need to ask “myself” what “I” could do better or differently. Some days, some years, I will produce a lot. And some I will not. All I can do, all we can do, is take it one day at a time.

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Create Space for “Fortunate Mistakes”

Drawing is not one of my talents. Nevertheless, I took a class to learn to draw mandalas. As the instructor was demonstrating a design, she made a slight error. She encouraged us not to worry about our mistakes, though, because you could often incorporate them into your creation in an interesting way. “Some of my best designs were because I thought I made a mistake and had to use it,” she said.

A friend of mine is a jazz pianist. He tells a story of a time he was playing with a respected musician and was nervous about making a mistake in front of this person. Sure enough, he played a wrong note and instantly worried he’d screwed up. But the lead musician turned to him and said, “Play it again.” He did, and the rest of the ensemble rose to match it. It was a magical moment for my friend.

These are what I call “fortunate mistakes,” and many of the world’s great inventions and beloved art pieces started with or were influenced by a fortunate mistake. It begs the question: when does a mistake cease to be a mistake?

My husband is a talented woodworker who now builds ukuleles. He explains it this way: “All of my pieces have a mistake in them. Sometimes it’s not very noticeable, other times I have to work around it in a creative way. But that’s what makes my instruments handmade. That’s what makes them more special than something that rolled off an assembly line. And each mistake leads to a story. As you know, most good stories start with something that went wrong.”

Boy, do I know that! As a fiction writer, it’s the obstacles, misjudgments, shortcomings, and colossal blunders that challenge your character to grow and achieve. Without them, there is no story.

So back to the question of when does a mistake cease to be a mistake? One test is, does it cause harm to you or anyone else? But how do you know if that’s the case? You ask. How many times have we worried we hurt someone’s feelings only to discover they actually appreciated our honesty? If it turns out we did cause offense with something we said, wrote, or created, we have the opportunity to make amends.

Are there times the mistakes we make in our work and art are so lamentable the best bet is to scrap the whole thing and start over? Of course. That happens to me all the time. Ask me how many drafts I have of each of the chapters in my books. But whatever mistake I made that caused me to toss a draft and begin again led to something better, for which I’m always grateful. Those were fortunate mistakes.

My husband once dropped a ukulele that was almost finished and broke it. It was a devastating slip-up, until he realized he could glue it back together and use it as a demo to show people the look and style of his instruments. He could no longer sell that piece, but he could find another purpose for it.

If you’re holding yourself back for fear of making a mistake, stop it. If in a worst-case scenario you do cause harm to you or someone else, use that experience to grow, do better, and hopefully make amends. More likely, your errors will lead you to unexpected discoveries and maybe brilliant ideas. You can play it safe and make no mistakes, or you can push yourself and stumble upon a fortunate mistake. For all of our sake, I hope you choose the latter.

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Daddy, That Lady Liked My Bike

My husband and I were walking the other afternoon and came to a small intersection. A man and his daughter had stopped their bikes at the corner. The man was bent over fixing something, but the little girl–who looked to be about four–watched us approach. I smiled at her warmly, and she smiled back shyly.

I said, “I like your bike. I like the decorations and the streamers. It’s very pretty.”

The dad looked up and gently urged his daughter to say thank you, which she did. As we walked away, I heard her say, “Daddy, that lady liked my bike!”

Lately I’ve been trying even harder to notice children, to let them feel seen. Sometimes it leads to some pretty funny conversations, and sometimes those go on longer than I would prefer, but always they give me a lift. That little girl was watching us walk toward her. She never took her eyes off us. We don’t always see kids, but they see us.

I worry about children a lot in this chaotic year of 2020. I worry about the big issues, like the children who are spending more time at home with dangerous parents, or the kids who are going hungry because their caregivers lost their jobs, or the children who are being separated from their parents. But I also worry about the admittedly more privileged kids who are missing out on opportunities to play with their friends, or visit their grandparents, or go to school because we’re working hard to keep them safe. And I worry about our littlest humans and how they’re processing this experience when masked faces no longer show smiles, and fewer strangers stop to talk, and their little bodies and souls are feeling our stress no matter how hard we try to hide it.

With my mask on, I can’t smile easily at little kids in the grocery store anymore, so I wave. And sometimes they wave back. I can’t stoop down to admire their chalk pictures as they draw, but I can comment on them as I walk by. I can’t go to comfort them when they’re crying, but I can ask if they’re okay. And I can be specific, because all of us, no matter our ages, feel most seen when someone says something specific.

A little girl was walking past my house with her mother. I had just returned from the mailbox and was nearing my front door when I heard the girl say, “I like your house.”

I turned around and took a few steps toward her. “Thank you. What do you like about it?”

“It’s blue.”

“I like blue too. It’s one of my favorite colors.”

“Me too! What’s your name?”

“My name is Teresa. What’s your name?”

“Audrey.”

“That’s a beautiful name. You’re lucky to have such a beautiful name.”

Little Audrey lit up. At this point, her mother waved at me and urged her daughter on.

“I like your name, too,” Audrey said as they walked away.

I went into the house feeling lighter, not just because I’d made Audrey feel seen, but because she’d made me feel seen as well. She told me she liked my house. She liked its color. She liked my name. As is so often the case, when we give to others, we get something in return.

I’m grateful to the everyday artists who’ve painted rocks and left them along the paths for children (and the child in all of us) to find. I’m grateful for the imaginative neighbors who’ve arranged stuffed animals in funny scenes in their windows for the children to notice. I’m grateful to the inspired friends and relatives who’ve decorated their cars to drive past a child’s house on his/her birthday. I’m grateful to the long-distance grandparents who sing songs with the kids over the phone and the exhausted parents who read stories to them at night and the teachers who act out their lessons over Zoom to make their students laugh. Thank you for using your art to make our children feel seen in this pandemic world. Please know that your efforts are also seen.

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