Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 22

It’s All Still There, It’s Just Different

A friend e-mailed the other day to say, “It must be hard for you this week. You always throw a big party on your birthday and, this year, it’s going to be so quiet.” Indeed. It’s the little things that make you realize how much our lives have changed.

Take coffee, for example. In the past, my husband would head off to work and drink the free coffee there, while I stayed home and brewed a small pot perfect for my taste. Now that my husband is working from home, he’s been making the coffee because he gets up before me. I can’t tell you how many “discussions” we’ve had about what makes for an exemplary cup of coffee.

Pre-pandemic, after he left for work, and I had the house to myself, I’d head over to my favorite meditation spot. I had it all set up to fit my needs perfectly. But now that he’s working from home, I’ve had to move my meditation to our bedroom, and the chair there doesn’t suit me as well.

I still wander down to my basement office to try to work each day, but it’s harder to concentrate now. I hear him rifling through the pantry and wonder what he’s eating. I hear him chatting on the phone and wonder who he’s talking to. I see him pick up a book while he’s eating lunch and wonder where he’s at in the story.

We artists like to regard ourselves as out-of-the-box thinkers, even as rebels. Creatives are supposed to operate outside of schedules and routines, so it’s been a bit of a shock to realize how reliant I’d become on having my work day unfold in a certain way. On having my life unfold in a certain way.

If I’m honest, though, my drop in productivity and satisfaction can’t be blamed entirely on my loss of routine. That’s just an easy excuse. I haven’t really stopped meditating because my chair isn’t as comfortable, I stopped because in my current fog, I couldn’t hear my inner guidance. And it’s not that the coffee tastes all that different, it’s that it doesn’t taste the same as it did when I was excited about the day that stretched before me.

Once again, I realize it’s not about what lies outside us, it’s about what’s going on within. Routines, processes, methods, practices, we build those to support the things we care about. We construct them to make it easier or more efficient to do our best work. We engineer them to help us prioritize the things that really matter. As it turns out, a routine is easy to change, a mindset is not.

The fact is, what really matters hasn’t shifted for me. History matters. Art matters. Writing matters. Doing for others matters. Maybe the old methods don’t work right now. Maybe I need some new practices. Maybe it was time and I just didn’t want to admit it. Maybe its not the end of the world to start all over.

This morning, my husband got the coffee just right. And writing this post felt like tapping into inner guidance. And my birthday may be quieter, but it’s still filled with love. It’s all still there, it’s just . . . different.

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Your Creativity in Times of Transformation

I was talking to an intuitive friend and expressing to her how lost I’ve felt lately. The pandemic, the failing economy, the social unrest, the political turmoil, and my own business downturn are always on my mind and weigh heavily on my heart. I’ve thought of myself as a driver. Someone who jumps in and tries to “fix” things that have gone wrong. Other people seem to think of me that way, too. But lately, I can’t summon the energy to do much more than just get through each day.

I’ve also always been a planner, but how do you plan when things are changing daily? I’m a service provider, but how do you serve when the needs are so high and so unpredictable? And, of course, I’m a creative, but how do you create when your energy has left you?

My friend said, “Something as deep and powerful as what you’re going through now doesn’t lend itself to action.” That stopped me in my tracks. Up to this point, I thought the answer to everything was action. Now it seems the answer, for me anyway, is inaction. It’s thinking, and feeling, and reading, and contemplating, and reimagining. It’s that last part that excites me, though it still feels like I’m under water and reaching toward the light at the surface. But at least I can still see the light.

I know some of you are feeling busier and more overwhelmed than ever. And some are feeling adrift, like me. Some of you are working on new projects. Some are simply letting yourselves be. But all of us are transforming, like it or not. In fact, the whole planet is transforming, so it might be helpful to remember this:

We tend to think of creativity as something that “results” in a new product or method or program or work of art. But sometimes creativity just means opening space for new ideas to form or for the things that are already inside us to expand. “All your skills, talents, and insights are still with you,” my friend said. “Trust that. They will be there when you need them.”

Be your creative self, whatever that looks like now.

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Protecting Our Future Normal

“I just can’t wait till things go back to normal.” How many times have you heard someone say that on a news broadcast lately? How many times has that thought crossed your own mind, even if you don’t believe it’s really possible? Living in this time of COVID-19 is hard, and one of the things keeping us going is a desire to return to the things we love. But what are we doing to protect this future “normal”? What are we doing to ensure the things we love are still with us when this is all over?

 

I read in a newsletter from our local Music District that a recent survey indicated 90% of our independent music venues will not survive this pandemic unless they receive assistance from the government. It makes sense. A music venue exists solely to host concerts and events. They can’t easily change their model. Think now of your favorite places to hear music and imagine they are all gone.

 

It’s the models so few people really understand. For most theaters to remain open, for example, they have to have at least a few sell-out shows or a consistent audience attendance. That’s not going to happen while audience capacity is rightly limited or while people are justifiably afraid to enter enclosed places.

For most musicians to make money, they need to get paid by the local venue and put out a tip jar and sell their merchandise in the back of the room and hope that someone will see the show and invite them to perform at their venue too. Asking for donations via Venmo during a livestream performance will rarely bring in the income they are accustomed to making. Musicians and the venues that host them have a symbiotic relationship. The same is true of visual artists. For most painters to earn a living, they have to be able sell their work at galleries, shops, or markets. Sales there are typically much more robust than any that might come from most artists’ websites alone. I’m showing only the tip of the iceberg here, but you get the gist.

 

And then there are the arts organizations, the ones that provide free music or writing lessons to low-income children or public art exhibits where families can come and participate. The success of the arts relies on a model of introducing children to art. It’s those kids who will grow up not only to be the artists of the future, but the arts enthusiasts and supporters.

 

The arts are hurting right now. Please don’t let anyone tell you differently. And, yes, artists are creative and, yes, they are working on new models, but in the meantime, it’s up to us to protect the things we love.

 

So, if you haven’t figured out what to do with that stimulus check yet, and if your budget allows, won’t you consider making some donations to the theaters, music venues, art museums, and arts organizations in your areas? Or if you have time, can you contact your representatives and urge them to protect the arts? If we want to someday return to “normal,” we’ve got to make sure there is a normal to which to return.

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It’s Not a Hobby, It’s Essential

I’ve always turned down invitations to join book clubs. Not because I don’t see the value in them and definitely not because I didn’t like the people inviting me, but because I always seem to have stacks of books of my own to read. Lately, though, I’ve found myself in three book groups. It so happened that each is reading important, timely books about race and the human experience. Books I felt I could get more out of by discussing them rather than reading them alone. And it feels good to be sharing my love for reading and my belief that books, like all forms of art, help us learn and improve.

And, to be honest, since the pandemic hit and my business slowed down, I find myself with more time on my hands. I could finally get through the stacks and stacks of unread books I own, but ironically, a new obstruction has arisen. A strange and internal one. I feel guilty reading in the middle of the day. My workaholic self keeps reminding me I should be doing something “more important.” I even felt the need the other day to preface my reading time with a disclaimer to my husband, “Now, if you see me reading in the middle of the day, don’t mention it. Don’t draw attention to it in any way or I’m going to think you’re teasing me about not working.”  He looked at me like I’m crazy. And I am.

I recently reread The Four Agreements with one of my book groups. In it, the author suggests we enter into agreements with the universe, ourselves, and others, and some of those agreements can be self-limiting and cause suffering. Somewhere along the line, I agreed to see reading as a hobby, a pleasure, a treat. I agreed that 9:00 – 5:00 should be treated like work hours, and I agreed that work meant sitting at my desk performing certain tasks. But if you can make an agreement, you can break one.

Like so many of us, I’m reinventing myself and my business right now. And to do that, I need information, encouragement, examples, and the opportunity to contemplate and create. Books provide those things. And not just text books or self-help books. I recently read a novel about parents navigating the tricky waters of raising a transgender child and I’m now reading a novel written by a Native American author, which starts with an exploration of all the ways Native Americans have been abused throughout our history.

And I’m spending a lot more time reading personal accounts on social media by brave people stepping forward to tell their stories of personal heartache during these trying times and being honest about how we can really help.

Reading, painting, writing poetry, listening to music, watching live stream theater, these are not wasting time, and they are much more than just hobbies. They are essential to our core development. And what could be more important than that?

P.S. I bought this magnet at Strand Book Store in New York City. It’s called Rosie the Reader. As a World War II writer, I have many images of Rosie the Riveter in my office, but this Rosie isn’t bucking rivets, she’s reading books. And that makes her my new hero.

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Landing Comfortably Between the Extremes

I’ve been feeling really down about this pandemic the past few days, as the numbers swing upwards again. It was taking too much energy to feel sorry for myself, though, so I decided to create a list of good things that will come from several more months of “safer-at-home” orders. My list didn’t get very far though: I’m saving wear and tear on my dress shoes. I haven’t had to buy Tic Tacs for weeks. I won’t be needing to reorder make-up anytime soon.

Like many creatives, I’m not that great at making lists. My mind too easily wanders. And when I wrote down that last item it got me thinking. . . I’ve been wearing make-up consistently since I was first allowed to in the eighth grade. Whereas my two daughters never became dependent on make-up, I did. They’ve sometimes dared me to go even to the grocery store without it, and until the coronavirus hit, I hadn’t had the guts to try.  Now, on those days where there’s not so much as a Zoom call scheduled, I’ve been going without make-up. And here’s what I’ve discovered.

When I was a teenager, my mom and my aunts scolded me for touching my face. That was how you messed up your make-up or worse, got pimples. And the more you touched your face in your youth, the more likely you’d be to have dark circles or bags under your eyes as you aged. I took their advice to heart and broke that nasty habit.

How odd it feels now to rub my eyes like a three-year old when I feel tired or to cry freely without fear of running my mascara. And I’ve gained a few minutes in my day by not applying or removing make-up. Not to mention all the money I’ll save. I’ve appreciated the opportunity to experiment a little too. What do I look like with just mascara? How about just mascara and blush? How about mascara and eye shadow only?

Last week was the first week in many, many years in which there were no meetings, calls, or speaking gigs on my calendar. A wide-open week. Plain and unadorned, like my face. Though it felt disconcerting, I thought I’d lean into it anyway and see how my days changed when there was no schedule to dictate my actions. I checked some long overdue tasks off my list and moved forward on a few projects, but I also wandered aimlessly around the house a lot and complained about feeling bored.

Derek Sivers said in a recent interview that he likes to throw himself into something for a while and see how it feels (like living a minimalist life) and then throw himself into the opposite to see how that feels (he bought a bigger house and more stuff). Once he’s tried both, he knows which feels better or how to land comfortably between the two.

This pandemic has forced me to try working less (after years of working far too much). And it’s given me the opportunity to test my boundaries around personal appearance. It’s clear now those are not things I would have tried on my own.

As artists of all kinds, we’re going to learn a lot about ourselves during this bizarre time in history. And when all is said and done, I hope we’ve figured out how to land comfortably between the extremes that have dictated our lives. What would that look like for you?

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All Kids Need to See Themselves in Art

When I was a little girl, my younger brother and I listened often to a beloved record of old cowboy songs. Growing up in Idaho, we had real live cowboys walking down the street and we were fascinated by them and by the outlaws of the Old West. My favorite song on the album was “El Paso” by Marty Robbins. I still find myself singing the opening lines all the time:

 

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso

I fell in love with a Mexican girl

 

My kids have asked me repeatedly why I sing just that snippet from a silly, old song. There’s a good reason, and I’ll tell you, but first I want you to know that as an adult, I have read the lyrics and realized, not surprisingly, that the song is full of what we now recognize as racist and sexist overtones. The girl’s name if Feleena, an Americanized spelling of the Latin name, Felina, which means “cat-like.” Cat-like, of course, means one who moves gracefully, but also stealthily.

 

The singer describes her eyes as:

Blacker than night were the eyes of Feleena

Wicked and evil while casting a spell

 

When he discovers Feleena cheating on him, he kills her lover and makes a run for it. Though he knows a posse will be lying in wait for him, he can’t help but return to her because, of course, she has bewitched him. As he dies, she kisses his cheek and cradles him in loving arms, but it’s too late. Wicked Feleena.

 

Of course, all of that went over my head as a child. All I heard in those opening lines was that he had fallen in love with a Mexican maiden. Beautiful, like my Mexican mother and grandmother. Beautiful like maybe I would be if I took after them. It was the only English song I knew of that featured a Mexican girl, like me.

 

Little kids instinctively look for themselves in art. My mom had hung on my wall a few of the famous Northern Girl paintings, and I loved the one of the chubby cheeked, dark-haired girl. She had blue eyes, and mine were brown, but she was the one who looked most like me.

 

In my industry in the past five years, we’ve seen a growth in movements like #OwnVoices or We Need Diverse Books. As writers and publishers, we’ve acknowledged we need more books featuring diverse characters, but especially those written by diverse authors. Kids need to see themselves in stories, but also in the author photo on the back of the book.

 

As artists of all kinds, we are learning, we are growing, we are improving. And I hope we continue to do so. I’m not sure how that song would have been different if Marty Robbins had written it today. But back then, I saw myself in that art, imperfect though it was, and to this little half-Mexican girl, that was a gift.

 

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I’m Not Social, I’m Intimate

Several dear friends sent me e-mails a few weeks into the lockdown that said variations of, “Are you okay? I’m worried about my extroverted friends. I know this whole thing is harder for people like you.” Then they’d say something like, “Well, at least you have Zoom, and now so many people are livestreaming their events. That might help you stay connected.”

While I deeply and sincerely appreciated their concern for my well-being, there was something about the “people like you” comment that just didn’t sit right. It took me quite a while to figure out why.

In the beginning, I did jump eagerly on every Zoom call to which I was invited, and I did try supporting my industry friends by watching their livestream meetings and events and posting my “thumbs up” or “heart” emojis. I even attended several networking groups where there would be twenty or more people on the call. At first, it was exciting to see so many dear faces, but very soon, I started to feel drained of energy after those sessions. And a bit sad.

“Well that’s because you’re so social,” one friend said. “You miss being out and about. You miss seeing people in person. You miss being busy.” And that was partly true. But it wasn’t entirely correct, either. I’m not “social,” I’m intimate. There’s a very big difference.

For me, it’s not just about seeing people or being part of a crowd or trying to achieve a new introduction that will advance my career. It’s about those intimate moments that happen even within a large gathering. It’s about noticing that one person who seems distracted or hurt and asking if she’s okay. It’s about meeting a stranger and discovering a shared passion. It’s about running into someone you haven’t seen in months and giving them a hug. It’s about helping someone pick up their dropped plate of nachos and reassuring them it happens to everyone. It’s about pulling someone aside to whisper a secret. It’s about smiling at the baby in their arms or complimenting the shoes they’re wearing. It’s about feeling the whole room rock with laughter.

Many of my introvert friends have been telling me they are “not too affected” by the lockdown or even that they are thriving in all their quiet time, but science reveals something different. Science has shown us that even before the global shutdowns, populations were reporting higher levels of loneliness. Even for people who like being alone, there is still a need for intimacy. That’s what makes us human.

In the past few weeks, I’ve participated in some heartfelt and important Zoom calls about racism, the pandemic, and the upcoming recession, and I’m glad I did. I’ve discovered that people can be intimate on Zoom if they give their fellow speakers the same attention and respect they’d give them in real life, which means focusing more on the voice and facial cues of the speaker than on checking your phone or switching your virtual backgrounds.

But it’s still not the same. In person, I wouldn’t worry so much about whether it was my turn to speak next, or whether I had unmuted my microphone, or how I should phrase my response in the chat box. In real life, I would look you in the eye, grab your hand, and speak from the heart. In real life, I would lean in and feel you breathe.

That’s what I miss.

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When Ignorance and Wisdom Cannot be Separated

I was flipping through a book called When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron and came across this line. “Wisdom and ignorance cannot be separated.” I cannot comment on that sentence within the context of what she is writing about, because I have not yet read the book, but I can comment on what that observation brought to heart and mind.

We are living through a time of tremendous pain, suffering, worry, fear, anger, frustration, and sorrow. I listen each morning to a podcast called The Daily, which is put out by the New York Times. As the stories unfold, I hear voices crack in sorrow and rise in anger and stall when the words just won’t come. Because I can’t see the images of the actual person waving through a window to their elderly father or the worried mother rushing her very ill teenager to the hospital or the heartbroken protester asking “Why are they doing this to us?” or the devastated business owner who must close down their business for good, I’m forced to focus on the voices of the interviewees, on the words they say and the words they can’t bring themselves to say.

It’s the images that will likely remain with us long after this time has passed. Pictures of city streets that mirrored ghost towns one month and battle zones the next. Pictures of exhausted health care workers in masks and then protesters bleeding from their wounds. So many of us have been glued to our TVs or the internet fixated by the trauma we see playing out before us, but are we really listening? Are we hearing the words the person in the forefront is saying, or looking at what the people behind her are doing? Are we letting a snapshot lead us to judgement or are we digging deeper to understand what we see? When was the last time you paused to really listen to the words of someone with whom you thought you disagreed?

We are all guilty of ignorance, and we only become wise when we choose to confront it. We can only do better when we understand the hurt we’ve experienced and the hurt we cause. We can only grow wise when we educate ourselves about what’s not working and decide that we’re not willing to live with that level of ignorance any longer, no matter how comfortable it has seemed to be.

We’ve been given tools, though, to access our wisdom. Compassion, empathy, curiosity, kindness, determination, strength, and creativity. This blog has always called upon the inner artist in all of us. It’s time to get creative. The old ways are no longer working. Bring your artist selves to the table, whether your art is advocacy, instruction, council, training, policy making, mindfulness, science, or storytelling. And remember, artists don’t just see what is shown to them, they look for what isn’t visible, they listen for what isn’t said.

There’s a reason wisdom is hard won. It’s tempting to say it’s time to do the difficult work within ourselves, our communities, and our nation so “we can heal.” But history has taught us that ignorance will always be with us. We will grow wise in some ways. We will improve, until the next thing arises to test us. But that’s the challenge and the joy of being human. Our ignorance will never leave us, but from that ignorance we can gain wisdom. If we so choose.

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Actually, This Isn’t Unprecedented

I confess that I, too, have been using the word “unprecedented” to describe our current condition during this COVID-19 pandemic. And in so many ways, the word seems to fit. But then I came across these lines in Bill Bryson’s book, Shakespeare: The World as Stage, “London’s theaters were officially ordered shut, and would remain so for just under two years, with only the briefest remissions.” He’s talking about the years 1592-1593, which were plague years. “For theatrical companies it meant banishment from the capital and a dispiritingly itinerant existence on tour.”

In another passage he says that during plague years, “Public performances of all types—in fact public gatherings except for churchgoing—were also banned within seven miles of London each time the death toll in the city reached forty, and that happened a great deal.”

Sounds a lot like today, doesn’t it? But this was all taking place more than 400 years ago!

Being a historian, I’ve always taken comfort in history, in the knowledge that deep within our DNA and collective memory is the ability to overcome almost any challenge. We really have been through this before.

So, what did the actors in Shakespeare’s time do? Well, it sounds like they went grudgingly on the road. And what did the playwrights like Shakespeare and Ben Jonson do? They kept writing. And when the plague let up, they returned to their theaters. And because they kept writing, we have some of the greatest plays ever written.

I confess, I’ve succumbed a bit lately to a victim mentality when it comes to my own art. Is this really a good time to release a Spanish translation of my book V for Victory? With less income coming in, should I save that money? And what’s the point of finishing the play version of Wave Me Good-bye when it’s uncertain when the theaters will reopen and when they might be interested in new scripts. And why even consider other writing projects when the publishing industry is pulling back too?

It helped, at first, to hear stories of all the great works of art that had come out of difficult times in our history, but to do so again would require a certain amount of faith that I, or anyone else, could quiet the voices of worry in our heads long enough to hear our muses. But this passage from Bill Bryson made me realize this is not the first setback I’ve endured in my lifetime, nor will it be the last. And it’s not the first setback our arts industries have endured, nor will it be the last.

But in the darkest moments of history, art is always present. We’re seeing it now in the creative masks that artists are designing, in the songs that are telling us how to live in this new normal, in the funny videos that are making us laugh, in the heartfelt poems that are making us cry, in the amazing photographs that are capturing our stories.

Come on, artists and art lovers, it’s time to “go on the road,” even if it’s not what we’d prefer to do. It’s time to get creative and find new ways to reach our audiences, because technologies come and go, fortunes wax and wane, countries rise and fall, but art is here to stay.

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Stuck in a Pandemic World

Well, I knew it might happen someday. People ask me all the time how I can come up with enough content for a weekly blog. Don’t I ever get stuck? Up until now, I’ve been able to smugly reply, “No, I never get stuck. I think that’s because when I started this blog, I didn’t put any pressure on what it should be. I write it from a place of passion and permission.”

And that’s always been true, until today. Until I started and stopped this blog six different times.

Today, I’m stuck. And not just in my writing. I’m stuck in trying to figure out how I fit into this pandemic world. I’m a person who craves intimacy, so Zoom calls and social media don’t cut it for me. But neither do walks six feet apart with our masks on. I used to enjoy the energy of being in a room full of people. For example, I used to love going to the grocery store on a busy Sunday afternoon when everyone was happily smelling the pineapples or chatting with the butcher. Now I go on Wednesday night at 7:00 when there’s hardly anyone there so I can avoid feeling the anxiety bouncing off people as we try so hard to follow the rules of social distancing.

I’m stuck in trying to figure out what direction I should take with my work and writing.  Many of my writer friends are continuing as if its business as usual. They still have deadlines to meet, and staying home to write is nothing new for them. Others are viewing these slower days as a chance to experiment with different types of writing. Others are downloading dozens of free webinars, courses, and classes and expanding their knowledge. As it turns out, I’m a terrible online learner. I don’t have the patience to sit through a webinar without constantly hitting the fast-forward button. And whatever deadlines I had disappeared when this whole thing started. If there’s a new piece of writing calling to me, it must have its microphone on mute, because I’m not hearing anything.

I’m stuck trying to figure out how to feed my adventurous spirit when I can’t travel anywhere. Roger and I have resorted to taking short Sunday drives in the foothills or walks in neighborhoods outside our own. I’ll confess it’s fun to come around a corner and see something unexpected, like a llama in a pasture or a bizarre piece of homemade art in someone’s yard, but it’s not the same as visiting a place you’ve never been before.

I’m stuck trying to figure out how to support the people I love most. Is it safe to go and visit them yet? If not, when will it be?

I’m stuck between thinking I should keep up on the latest news and developments, and feeling tempted to ignore it all.

I don’t want this to sound like a complaint. I acknowledge I’m lucky and privileged in so many ways and that feeling stuck hardly constitutes a serious problem when compared to what some people are going through, but I’ve said many times in this blog that I think it’s important to lean in to our feelings if we want to grow. What can we learn from feeling stuck? How do we find the internal and external places that make us feel most at home in this new normal?

I’ve realized over the years we can’t just think our way out of being stuck. And we can’t always act our way out of it either, but those still seem to be the things I try first. Why? Because I hate feeling stuck. And then I remind myself that, sometimes, we need to sit with discomfort until we unravel what lies beneath it.

So how did I get unstuck just enough to write this little post? I first gave myself permission to feel stuck and to admit that I was. Then I found the passion to love my frustrated, disillusioned, unmotivated self enough to say, “Quit trying to write from anyplace but where you are. You don’t have to be clever or perfect. You don’t have to rise above. Just dig in and let’s see what’s underneath.”

It’s a start, anyway.

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