Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 21

Transforming Hate – Yours and Mine

Things are heavy right now. Author Caroline Myss explained in a recent interview that we often insist we need a reason to feel positive. Lately, it’s sometimes hard to find a reason. Many of my friends are admitting to feeling more negative than usual. I get that.

I had an odd and disturbing realization about my own negativity. I recognized I was using the word “hate” excessively. So, I decided, for the sake of this blog, to record how many times in one day I uttered that word. I gave up after announcing it three times in just one hour. Wow!

I’ve been declaring my hatred of the big things that dominate our lives. “I hate this virus,” I might say. “I hate the racial injustices in our society and the animosity playing out on social media.” Well, of course. Those could go without saying. But I’ve also been declaring my hatred of the little things, too: “I hate this stupid landline. I hate these dull knives. I hate cans that are impossible to open.”

I’ve been heaping hate on myself and others. I’ve been known lately to hate the weather, the road construction, the loud motorcycles that cut off my conversations and ruin my sleep. I’m quick to hate glitches in technology and the constant string of spam calls hitting my cell phone.

I probably hated many of those things before the stress of the past six months, but I feel like I hate some of them more now. That’s not healthy. And it’s not productive or creative or inspired. And it’s not me. At least I hope it’s not.

So, I’ve been catching myself. I may start to say I hate it when the broccoli is overcooked, and then I remind myself that mushy or not, it’s a healthy choice for my body. I may start to say I hate the smoke from the local wildfire, and then I remind myself how lucky I am not to be in its path, and I send love out to those who’ve lost homes and businesses to the flames. I’m trying to squash my future hates before they even arrive. No more saying, “I’m going to hate it when the cold weather drives us all back inside.” And I’m ridding myself of my past hates. No more mulling over how much I hated that annoying webinar last week.

“It’s not nice to hate,” our mothers told us, and they were right, of course, but it’s human to have the feeling. That’s why they needed to tell us in the first place. But I believe all our feelings are meant to teach us something, if we choose to accept the lesson.

It’s lazy and cruel simply to hate. It does damage to us and everyone else. So now when I feel that inkling of hate, when I hear myself say the word, I catch myself. I take a moment to reflect and to dig for what other emotions lie below my statement. I ask myself what’s true about what I’ve said and what is the cumulation of other negative emotions like fear, worry, anger, frustration, insecurity, resentment, or grief.

I’m not going to hate myself for saying hate more lately. That’s clearly counterproductive. Though I’m sincerely working to improve, there’s a part of me that’s kind of glad I’ve identified so many things I hate in these past few months, because now I’m thinking about them. I’m wondering how I contribute to those problems or how I could improve them by adjusting my behavior or attitude. I’m wondering what more I need to learn or experience to help usher in compassionate change. I’m wondering what actions I can take in my community to foster growth and peace. I’m trusting and hoping I can transform the hate to create something that will help spread love and light, or at least comfort and healing.

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Vocations and Callings and Gladness in an Upside-down World

I looked up a quote I heard the other day attributed to Frederick Buechner and this is what I found: “Vocation is the place where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.” His words struck a chord given that I’ve been spending an enormous amount of time in this upside-down world of 2020 trying to figure out how I can best serve my hurting self and our hurting world.

Vocation is more than a job, more than a volunteer position. Its definition is: “A strong feeling of suitability for a particular career or occupation.”  It’s further defined as something “worthy and requiring great dedication.” Writing is definitely a vocation for me. So are blogging and speaking. But if the above definitions are correct, a vocation is not a “calling.”

Some people may experience that middle-of-the-night epiphany and know what they’re meant to do, so it can be said they have arrived at the “strong feeling.” But for most of us, it takes time to truly believe we are “suitable” for our mission. And for many of us, it takes time to believe our chosen course is “worthy,” especially if others don’t see it as such. That’s where the “great dedication” comes in. It comes from acknowledging we have doubts and insecurities, but deciding to dedicate ourselves to our vocations until we do feel suitable and worthy.

This interpretation of Buechner’s advice intrigued me because the word “vocation” has always sounded so solemn and serious and important. Like you better get it right, and you better do it right. And we tend to think of vocations as things people commit their whole lives to, like religious service or medicine. But Buechner appears to take the pressure off finding your “one true purpose” and says, look to what makes you happy. Look to where your energy lies. Look not just to what you’re good at, but what you can’t stop doing. And then look out into the world and see where your strengths, skills, and wisdom can be put to use to help the most people in need.

Interestingly, that is not the actual quote. What Buechner really said is: “The place God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” This version puts the emphasis on the calling and also on the “world’s hunger,” not its “deep need.” After all, who are we to determine what the world needs? How strong is our ego that we feel so sure we know what others require? But to focus on the world’s hunger means not to rescue people, but to serve them. Not to provide them food, but to teach them how to grow it themselves. Not to whisk them off to a shelter, but to empower them to seek shelter. Not to judge, but to listen. Not to solve, but to inquire.

I feel I was called to be curious and to explore and celebrate what makes ordinary people (now and throughout history) so extraordinary, and I feel my vocation was to be a writer/speaker, a career I’ve dedicated almost three decades to developing, a career that has given me much gladness. It’s been a worthy undertaking, for sure, but this year has challenged so many of my core beliefs about what we really hunger for. This post is a perfect example of how something (this quote) can resonate and feel so real at first glance, only to shift and grow with further examination, and then somehow to translate into one’s own truth.

The world feels deeper and heavier lately, and for a historian like myself, it’s easy to recall the darkest days of our history. With things changing so fast right now, it makes sense to accept that vocations do not require a lifetime commitment and new callings can lead to new ways to contribute. I secretly hope my new callings come to me in middle-of-the-night epiphanies, because that would be so easy, but it’s more likely they’ll come when I finally give myself permission to lean into my deep gladness again, a gladness that connects me to my art, my service, and my Spirit.

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How To Create When Your Heart is Broken – Revisited

A friend brought up this blog post, which I wrote way back in November 2016. She still remembered it, so I thought it might be time to run it again. 

Some of the greatest songs and stories are created by artists who have suffered a major loss or breakup. They channel all that pain, frustration, anger, confusion, disbelief, and sorrow into their creations, and we embrace those songs and stories because they speak to our suffering too.

Other artists, when faced with heartbreak, drop their art for a while as they work through their pain. It’s sometimes years before they pick up a pen or paintbrush or instrument again.

Some artists create work just for themselves in order to process their sadness. They scribble furiously in journals or create sculptures they then destroy or write songs they crumple up and throw away. Their pain is private, but their art is still the best way to express it.

There is no right way to grieve, not even for artists. Whatever route you take, don’t judge it. Trust you are where you need to be.

Be curious, though, because that is the strength of the artist. Don’t run from the pain or anger or frustration, ask yourself why you are feeling it and how it is changing you. Try to understand why others might be feeling pain too or why they are not. Let your thoughts flow. Don’t stop them. They may take you to some dark places or to places that feel much lighter than you would have expected. Don’t feel guilty either way. Stay in those thoughts for a while. Feel into them. Notice every emotion and wonder what it is telling you and where it might take you.

And when you are ready, pick up the tools of your trade and get back to work. In times of trouble, people need artists. We create those spaces where their pain and worry and sadness can rest, and where their broken hearts can hope again. We don’t have the answers, but we know how to pose the questions. And those questions start within us.

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Advice from Your Future Self During The Time of COVID

During the pandemic, I’ve fallen out of touch with a few of my favorite people, including my Future Self. I used to enjoy chatting with her often as I created new products or programs or services. She was always one of my greatest cheerleaders, but also the person I could count on to advise me with a bit of caution when the situation called for it. Since the pandemic started, I wasn’t sure if I had anything to say to my Future Self. I couldn’t imagine where my business was going or when I’d be able to travel again or whether I would even recognize her anymore.

It’s understandable why my Present Self has stolen most of my attention lately. She’s grappling with heavy emotions and strategic puzzles and everything from boredom to aggravation. She’s overwhelmed and troubled and in need of extra TLC. A good deal of my energy goes toward trying to keep up her spirits.

And my Past Self has been surfacing a lot lately too. She just wants to reminisce about trips I took that are forbidden to me now, or times when I could gather freely with friends and family with no fear, or about collaborations that seemed promising only a few months ago and now seem impossible. Going back to all my Zen reading, I remind my Past Self that it’s better to stay in the moment. This moment, right now, is life. This is what matters. Sometimes that quiets her for a bit, but not for long.

Yesterday, I started missing my Future Self. I asked from her perspective, what does this experience really mean for me? She said, “Teresa, someday you’re going to look back on this time and say, ‘If it hadn’t been for COVID, I never would have . . .’ It doesn’t really matter at the moment how you’d finish that sentence, but know that you will finish it someday. You’re going to see this as a time of challenges, yes, but also of opportunities. You might continue to grieve some losses, but you’ll also be able to see how you’ve grown. But in order to get there, you have to start believing in the future again even if you can’t exactly imagine how it might look.”

Recently, I was listening to an Esther Hicks video. She said once you put a desire out into the universe and it enters the vortex, it’s there. Even if you don’t move immediately toward that desire, your “placeholders” will hold as long as it takes. Maybe you need some time to cycle through all the things you don’t want before you can arrive at the things you do. Or maybe you need more time to feel the proper amount of confidence and passion. Or maybe life will throw you a major curveball and you’ll need to figure out how to work around that. But all of that is moving you in the right direction.

I see great wisdom in the advice that tells us to live in the now. But so much of what we do now is informed by the decisions –good and bad—we made in the past and even more so by the hopes we have for the future. Live in the now, yes, and make the most of it, but honor all the past steps that brought you to this place, and trust that, even when it feels like you’ve stalled out, you’re still moving in the direction of your dreams. It’s not a straight line from desire to goal. It’s a zig-zag course.

I think I stopped talking to my Future Self because I was afraid to get too hopeful. I mean, the death toll from the virus is still climbing, unemployment is high, certain industries are barely surviving, there’s social unrest in the country, and political turmoil. It seemed more important to buckle down and try to figure out how to “get through this” than it did to hope things would someday be better. As a historian I should have known better. After every major calamity in history, the world changes greatly. Some things are lost and some things are gained. We may not know exactly how this experience is going to change us, but there’s no doubt we have been changed.

I asked my Future Self what to do with those goals I had that no longer seem feasible, and she said, “The goal is and always was the desire not the product or service or program. The desire was to do good, to inspire, to build a place of peace and hope and respect. That’s what you put out in the universe. How you do that has changed many times in the past and will change again in the future. It’s changing now and that’s okay. If you hang in there, in no time you’ll be able to finish this sentence: ‘If it hadn’t been for the pandemic, I never would have . . .’”

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If I Hear the Word “Pivot” One More Time . . .

I was chatting with an acquaintance yesterday, and she asked how my business was doing during the pandemic. I said it’s been hit pretty hard, but I’m hanging in there. She admitted her business has been affected to, and then said, “But I swear if I hear the word “pivot” one more time . . .”

I asked if she remembered the scene in the TV show Friends in which Ross, Chandler, and Rachel are trying to move a couch up a flight of stairs and Ross keeps shouting, “pivot, pivot, pivot.”  To which Chandler replies, “shut up, shut up, shut up!”

At the start of the lockdown, I watched as many of my colleagues (myself included) threw themselves into pivots. Many of them took their standard offerings and found new ways to deliver them virtually. And that worked well for a while until people got Zoom fatigue. Others shut down to “wait things out.” I tried this for a bit too. But as time dragged on, that got more and more stressful and disappointing. Some of us pivoted by dropping a few of our products or services and beefing up others, and achieved enough success to at least keep our doors open.

But I have another group of friends who’ve taken this opportunity to sort of blow up their businesses and move in totally new directions. These are the people who seem the most passionate and excited. You could argue that it’s risky to move away from what we know best at this time, but with everything changing, does it really make sense for us to stay the same?

When I hear the word “pivot,” the image that comes to mind is that of a basketball player with one foot fixed on the floor and the other moving in a jerky fashion as she looks frantically from side to side assessing her next move. That image feels so restrictive right now, and I keep wondering what would happen if we all just broke the rules, picked up that planted foot, and moved more freely in whatever direction we choose.

I’m not suggesting you up and leave a job you adore for something else. If your business is still your baby, it might make sense to keep one foot firmly planted to best protect and preserve the thing you love. But if you’ve been feeling a disconnect from your current job, skills set, business model, or whatever, maybe trying to find a new way to hold onto those tired old things is not going to serve you best in the long run. Maybe it’s better to take a hit now in order to figure out where you really want to be two years from now.

Of course, I know not everyone can walk away entirely from their current business models. After all, there’s a recession on and there are bills to pay. So maybe you start by just lifting that foot up a little each day. Remove one or two things that no longer bring you passion, sign up to learn a new skill, read, brainstorm, discuss, dabble. We can’t all afford to blow up our businesses and start over, but many of us can afford to tighten our belts a little in order to free up the time and energy to explore our options.

Pivoting can be a useful tool. Ask any basketball player. I’m enjoying watching how some of my friends in industries like the arts, education, food service, and retail are coming up with new ways to serve. But if someone is suggesting a legitimate pivot to you, and all you hear in your head is, “shut up, shut up, shut up,” it might be time to ask yourself if this is the game you still want to be playing.

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Do You Even Have an Inner Artist? – Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is no right or wrong way to be creative.

There is no right or wrong place to be creative.

There is no right or wrong time to be creative.

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

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What Do You Hear in the Silence?

It’s awfully quiet around here. Oh, there’s the noise of a mini bulldozer moving dirt at the neighbor’s house and a ridiculously loud motorcycle going by and a dog barking down the street. There’s the hum of the microwave running as my husband reheats his coffee and the dryer tumbling. I can create more sound by turning on a podcast on my phone or the radio or television, but those are not the sounds I miss.

I miss the peal of laughter echoing through a room full of people. The lively racket of kids passing in a hallway when I arrive to do a school visit. The whistles and applause when the actors come out to take their bows. The talking-over-each-other catching up we’d do when we laid out the food for our dinner club.

I miss most the sound of excitement in my own voice.

“Can you die of boredom?” I asked my husband the other day as I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. “Because I’m pretty sure I might become the first documented case.” It’s not that I don’t have work to do or plenty of chores to keep me busy, but there’s only so much work and chores you can do before you start to go utterly stir crazy. I built a life full of distractions and now, thanks to the pandemic and my own fears, many of them are gone.

I’m told meditating helps, and I suppose it does. But right now, it just feels like more quietude.

So today I was ruminating on Wendell Berry’s poem, “How to Be a Poet (to remind myself)”. He wrote: “Make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came.” I find that line fascinating. Historical writers, like myself, hear the loudness of life when we write. We hear conflict, and demands, and protests, but also cheers, and declarations of love, and cries of joy. Bloggers, like myself, hear our own thoughts clamorous and constant and insistent, until we type them out.

Poets, though, can hear silence. They often write about quiet things, like blossoms opening, and clouds drifting, and someone taking someone else’s hand. But the silence we think they revere becomes sound as soon as they put it down on paper. Berry is not suggesting that poems, even those that spring from silence, remain silent. He’s saying they should not disturb. They should not discredit that which inspired them. They should not add to the noise that serves no one.

I’m not a poet, but I think there is something I can learn from this current stillness. How to stop feeling the absence of sound and be content in the peace that settles in the space between words. How to hear the murmurings under the more insistent voices in my mind. How to create something new that can whisper or shout as the moment dictates, but not disturb. Something that will honor the stillness from which it was born.

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Learning to Embrace Long Pauses

I’ve always been a rapid-fire communicator. I think fast, talk fast, and process my thoughts out loud. When I was in high school, my mother once dared me to talk for two minutes straight without a single pause. “Time me,” I said, and then I did it. 120 seconds of babbling about nothing without a moment’s hesitation.

Several years ago, I met a new friend who is much more deliberate in her conversation. At first, I wasn’t sure she liked me. I’d talk, and she’d sit in silence and smile slightly. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Was she studying me? Had I said something stupid? Had I failed to make my points clear? In case it was the latter, I’d repeat myself often. But she would just continue to smile. Eventually she’d comment. In time, I came to realize she was comfortable with long pauses. I was not. Never have been. A pause is a hole. It’s dangerous. It’s something to be filled.

This came up recently in a disagreement with someone close to me. I rushed in with suggestions and solutions. I asked questions to try to see how I could help, but I didn’t wait long enough to hear the complete answers. I shared my feelings, and when this person did not share their feelings back, I assumed they thought I was wrong. It’s funny, isn’t it, that someone who communicates for a living could, at times, be a terrible communicator.

This pandemic is giving me new opportunities to sit with pauses. Everything has slowed down, even our answers. It’s not uncommon now for me to say to someone, “How are you feeling?” and for them to take a long breath before they respond. It’s not a simple question anymore, is it?

My artist friends, especially, are at a loss for words. They miss playing gigs and acting in shows and reading their poetry at gatherings. There’s no way to know when their revenue streams will bounce back. Most realize they need some other type of work for now, but where will they find it? Nearly everything about their lives is on hold.

My husband has always said he knows when I’m scared or upset because I can’t talk. It’s not that I lose interest in speaking, it’s that the words literally won’t come. He’s learned to be nervous when that happens. Last night, we went for our nightly walk, and I barely said a word. Our walks used to be when we caught each other up, but now we’re together 24/7, so there’s nothing to catch up. Our walks used to be when we planned trips we can no longer take or ruminated about the challenges of my business, which is somewhat shuttered for now.

We walked in silence. I wasn’t scared or upset this time, though. I had nothing to say, and I told myself that was fine. I decided to lean into the pause. And it wasn’t a hole after all. It was filled with lingering gazes at pink clouds, and curious glances at the neighbor’s new landscaping, and the sight of my own feet hitting the pavement. I did wonder what my husband was thinking, but decided to be okay not knowing.

Now don’t get me wrong, not long after we got home, I started talking again. There’s nothing wrong with who I am. No need to change myself entirely. That’s important to remember. But there’s nothing wrong with learning to let go of something that once caused you stress, either. Maybe it’s time we all got a little more comfortable in the pauses.

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Fear Not Your Idleness

I’m pretty sure I’m the best darn dishwasher loader in the world. That’s a bold statement, I know, but since the pandemic started, I’ve had even more opportunity to prove my expertise. The trick to being a Grand Master of Dishwasher Loading is what I call, “working the puzzle.” You’ve got to get as many pieces in the machine as possible without letting them overlap in order to ensure each dish gets truly clean. And you have to time the running of the dishwasher so it falls in the off-peak hours to decrease your electricity bill, but also so the dishes you need will be ready by the next mealtime.

Pre-COVID-19, I prided myself on being a self-publishing expert, an award-winning writer, a highly regarded speaker, a well-respected coach, etc. I liked to think of myself as a cutting-edge creative entrepreneur and a community catalyst. I believed my busy schedule and long list of tasks were how I added value. I was a warrior, ready to fight the world to prove things could be done better. I’m frankly baffled how in my pre-COVID life I ever had time to even empty the dishwasher.

Things are much quieter now. I still have lists of tasks to complete, but none of them seem urgent. I can take my time and get to things when I feel like it, or not do them at all. In many ways, that feels good, but I also feel guilty that the old fire in my blood has cooled and ashamed that I’m not contributing as much I once did. I was brought up to have a strong work ethic and raised in a nation that rewards and expects productivity. But did all that rushing around really make me happier? Was that constant quest for achievement really my true nature?

I think back to when I was a kid and, to be honest, I was pretty lazy, when I was allowed to be. I was perfectly happy lying on the couch all day reading and watching old movies or playing a board game with my brother. I did my chores because my mother made me. I exerted myself only in games with the neighborhood kids, and even then, I was always the first child to need a break. I was perfectly happy lying in the grass watching the clouds float by and making up stories in my head. I was not a terribly ambitious child. Most the time I didn’t care if I came in first or last. There were a few times when I wanted to be best, but not bad enough to actually become the best.

What if my true nature is that of an idle person? What a terrifying thought! I grew up hearing the old proverb that idleness is the root of all evil. One of my childhood heroes, Ben Franklin, said, “Trouble springs from idleness, and grievous toil from needless ease.”  He also said, “Idleness and pride tax with an even heavier hand than kings and governments.”  Even Buddha once said, “To be idle is a short road to death and to be diligent is a way of life; foolish people are idle, wise people are diligent.”

So, if I’m not constantly producing, working, and striving, then I’m doomed. A life of poverty, self-loathing, and shame are sure to follow.

Unless none of that is true. Unless I choose to focus less on defining idleness as sloth and inertia and more as rest and repose. Because needing to believe you are so darn big and important and productive and accomplished is really just ego. Even if you do manage to do something that changes the world, the world will change again. That’s just how it goes.

This pandemic is uprooting everything we’ve known. There are businesses and industries that will not bounce back, and new ones that will form. There will be enormous transformations to our most cherished institutions. There will be unfathomable suffering but also unpredictable growth.

I don’t know yet where I fit into this new reality. I can feel myself shifting, but I’m not entirely sure how. I sense there is still a part I have to play in this unfolding drama, and I’m waiting patiently for that to be revealed.

Sometimes, though, I still need to believe I have something to offer right now. I still need reassurance I haven’t become lethargic. I still crave a sense of accomplishment. So, when it comes time to load the dishwasher, I say, “Stand back. Let me at it. I’m going to work the puzzle.” And I do. And it’s nothing, but it’s also beautiful. And in that moment, I know I’m going to be okay.

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Embracing Impermanence

I’m working on embracing impermanence. I’ve been reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron, and she reminds us that impermanence is our natural state. Babies don’t stay babies, people live and die, jobs come and go. But it’s not just reflected in the big things, it’s also the little things that happen every day. Our favorite pen dries up, our favorite dish breaks, our favorite shirt gets stained and can’t be worn again.

 

This pandemic is forcing us all to acknowledge impermanence, whether we want to or not. For example, I’m technically “unemployed” right now, given that most of my revenue streams have taken serious hits lately. Yet, I still seem to be plenty busy with “work,” it’s just not the type of work that pays much or that I really want to be doing.

 

My husband is urging me to adopt the viewpoint of being on sabbatical. Of course, ideally a sabbatical means you’re still getting a paycheck from your college or business, although not always. A sabbatical is a break from your regular workload, but it’s often tied to something that will enhance or improve your career, like doing research or writing a book (done those).

 

I could view this as a “career break.” Apparently, that concept is catching on in various places around the world, although it’s usually tied to something that helps your personal situation like raising kids (did that) or traveling (can’t do that now).

 

Sometimes I wonder if what I’m experiencing is really a break from my current career, or if I’m moving toward something completely different. People panic when artists say they might stop doing their art. “But you’ve always been a painter or a writer or an actor. And you’re so good at it. It’s what you’re meant to do.” And we artists believe that. We wrap our entire identities around the term “artist” or “writer.” We think if we stop, even for a little while, we’ve failed.

 

Sometimes a “going out of business” sign on a storefront is a sad thing. It means the owner simply could not make the business work and had no other choice but to close. Other times, though, “going out of business,” is a good thing. It means the owner had a long, successful run and now wants to retire or try a whole new career. Sometimes the loss of something we spent years building opens up new possibilities.

 

I’m not saying I’m walking away from writing or my business just yet, but this pandemic is forcing us all to look at “loss” in a new way. After all, what choice do we have? We’ve all lost something: a job, a college experience, maybe even a loved one. We’ve lost our sense of security and our opportunities to plan and our social lives. It’s easy to distract ourselves with TV, video games, and long drives just to get out of the house, but maybe it’s more important to lean into the loss and figure out what it’s opening up, both in and outside of us.

 

The fact is, I’ll always be an author because I’ve written eight books, a blog, and countless articles, essays, and short stories. Even if I never wrote again, “author” will always be a part of my identity.

 

If though, like everything else, our identities are not permanent, maybe it’s time to wonder what else makes me me. Mourn the losses, yes, but move curiously into the spaces their absence has created. And do so without attaching a word to this experience. It’s not a sabbatical, it’s not a career break, it’s not even a closing. It’s just a new birth, and whatever is being born will be as wonderful and as impermanent as what has passed.

 

As Chodron says in the book, “Birth is both painful and delightful.”

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