Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 24

Wisdom is the Journey

The first time I went to Europe on my high school senior trip, we visited five countries in 17 days. As a teen who’d spent most of my childhood dreaming about traveling the world, I was the first one off the bus to see the Parthenon, the Colosseum, the Louvre, Big Ben: postcards come to life. We went to bed late and woke up early, and I spent much of that trip prying my eyes open so I wouldn’t miss a single vista outside the bus window, while my classmates slept. What I remember, though, was a whirlwind of carefully timed awe. An hour here, a half-hour there, a picture to capture the moment, then back on the bus.

The first time I went to Ireland with my husband and three young kids, I vowed to do it better. One country, three weeks. But we spent only a few nights in each location, cramming as much into our days as the patience of children would allow. My kids remember what sounded like arguing to them, something my husband and I rarely do, as we tried to navigate roads that were backwards and maps that were unclear. They remember snatches of good things, too, including bonds that only children can form. I have many fond memories from that trip, but when someone asks me, “Did you visit this town or that,” I can’t always recall.

Two years ago, my husband and I spent six weeks in Ireland. Five of those passed in a rented cottage in a small town in the southwest of Ireland. We started our days slowly, with breakfasts of Irish sausage and scrambled eggs. We picked one destination each day, and lingered on fairy trails, and hikes through meadows filled with sheep, and tours of beautiful manor houses and their manicured gardens. In the evenings, we cooked dinner and ate outside on the patio table, noticing how the light on the nearby hill changed each evening and when the tides came in or out. Then we walked the one-lane road into town, saying hello to the cows in the pasture, and backing into the hedge to allow oncoming cars to pass. We savored his beer and my whiskey as the local musicians played in the pubs, and tried to make it home before the bats came out. I remember every day of that trip.

Last night, I was talking to a 23-year-old man. A gentle soul who was struggling with his very real, “quarter-life crisis.” He’d set a path for himself years ago and was thinking ahead decades to where he wanted to be. He was concerned he wasn’t doing things right and worried he wasn’t making a big enough mark.

“You’re only twenty-three once,” I said. “There are things you can only see, feel, and learn at twenty-three. Why rush it?  Why try to cram it all in now?” This young man was longing for the postcard, the big, shiny, “you’ve arrived” moment. I could tell him, and I did, that he’ll remember so much more if he just sinks into where he is now, but when you’re twenty-three, you want that five-countries-in-seventeen-days trip. You want to see and do it all now. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and yet death feels right around the corner. How will you ever do everything you want to do before he comes calling? I get that.

So, in the end, I told him, “Don’t worry. You’re doing everything right. You’re on your path and you’ll find your way. I promise.”

I don’t judge my 17-year-old self. She was right where she needed to be. In her desire to see it all, she found the courage to start living a lifelong dream. I don’t judge my 38-year-old self. She was right where she needed to be. Her longing to pass on her love of travel brought her family closer. And I’m not saying my 50-year-old self had it all figured out when she planned six laid-back weeks in a country cottage. That’s where she needed to be.

We say, “With age comes wisdom,” as if we must wait until we are old to be wise. But wisdom is the journey. And you are right where you need to be.

 

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How to Be a Master Manifester

My daughter is a master manifester. As so often happens with offspring, you teach them a skill and they surpass you at it. My daughter has learned a few things in her manifestation journey, though. For one, she’s learned the universe has a sense of humor. She once manifested: “Megan will be in my class.” When she arrived in class, she scanned the room for her friend, and was disappointed not to see her. Then a stranger sat down beside her and said, “Hi, I’m Megan.” My daughter and I have often joked that she needs to be more specific with the universe.

 

Then again, my daughter has learned that being too specific, too rigid, in your manifestations also may not work. She has occasionally tried to manifest a very certain type of job, only to see it fail to materialize. I suggested maybe the universe could see that she needed to broaden her view of the “perfect job” and what she really needed to learn.

 

She and I are both discovering that when our manifestations work best is when we can uncover the desire (and that desire feels like it comes from Higher Self) and then focus on that desire without focusing on how it will manifest. That’s not to say we don’t have a part in making it happen, but first we must let go of trying to control the outcome. I’ve certainly had the experience many times in my life, even in some very big ways, where I felt absolutely sure of something I was supposed to do and had no idea how I’d assemble the money, skills, or people to do it. But I kept the faith, I didn’t overthink it, I kept advancing toward the goal, and those resources came.

 

More often, though, my mind has been unwilling or unable to release the need to direct how and when I achieve the desired result. So often, I can’t seem to let go of worry, insecurity, fear, and pressure, and it feels as if the universe is saying, “I’m waiting. As soon as you shed all that doubt, I’ll know I have your permission to move forward.” Why, when I know it works to do just that, do I have such a hard time letting go?

 

I think when I first learned about manifesting, I confused it with the type of prayer I’d grown up practicing. The problem with those prayers for me was that asking for something I wanted always seemed to hinge on whether I was worthy of receiving it or whether the desire itself was worthy. My daughter doesn’t seem to question whether she’s worthy. She knows she is. And that’s where she’s got me beat. That is where she can teach me. And if I can learn that lesson well, maybe I can let go.

 

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Is Your Work Holy?

“There’s a long-standing belief that art brings us closer to God. What do you think of that?” my colleague asked. I wasn’t sure at first if she meant the creation of art or the art itself – as in all the beautiful paintings of the Madonna and Child or sculptures of angels, etc. When I was younger, it was easy to see a beautiful piece of art and feel sure it was divinely inspired. Then I learned that many of the “holy works” we so admire were not created by choice, they were commissioned and required by patrons. The artists themselves would have preferred to work on something else. Other great works of art have been interpreted as celebrations of the Divine, whether the artist intended them that way or not. There have also been plenty of works of art that openly challenge or defy the belief in the Divine. Surely those works did not bring the artist or the audience closer to God, since that’s the opposite of what was intended. Or did they?

As viewers of art, we know it’s possible to feel closer to God while standing in a beautifully painted chapel or listening to a centuries-old hymn, despite what the artist intended. In fact, it’s even possible to feel closer to God when you’re looking at something that defies everything that is Divine. So, in that sense, yes, art itself can bring us closer to God if that is what we choose for it to do (and, yes, I realize my examples here are focused on the Judeo-Christian view of the Divine, which is only part of the puzzle).

The question, though, of whether the creation of art brings the artist closer to God is more interesting. I’ve been working in the arts for 28 years, and it’s been a roller coaster ride of success and discouragement. I often joke that I “quit this business” twice a year, but it’s probably more often than that. Working in the arts is never easy.

Through all the ups and downs, I’ve held steadfastly to the belief that my work matters. That I was put here for a reason and this art is the reason. I’ve held to the belief that when my work touches people, the vibration of the universe rises. I’ve never felt this was arrogant. Quite the opposite. I often feel unworthy to perform my work. I was never the smartest kid in class or the hardest working or the cleverest. I have many friends who are better writers than me and better business owners too. I’ve doubted myself plenty, but I’ve never doubted the work. I’ve always felt to my core that art is important, that recording the stories of ordinary people is important, that history is important, that encouraging others to pursue their art is important. Even in my moments of disappointment or fear or disillusionment, the one thing that has always pulled me back to the work is the belief that it is “holy,” however you define that.

Lately, though, something caused me to doubt whether my work is really holy, or whether I had just chosen to believe that all these years from a place of ego or personality. That doubt really turned my world upside down for a few days. If the work itself is not holy, then why should I persevere through all the challenges?

The only way I can answer that is to say that when I’m working on my art and pursuing my dreams, I feel at one with the universe. I feel a sense of purpose and promise and peace. I’m my best self when I’m pursuing my art, but not just in those moments. Because I’m pursuing my art, I’m a better, happier, kinder person overall. Because I’m pursuing my art, I have moments of epiphany that fill me with joy and wonder and excitement. Because I’m pursuing my art, I have moments when I feel despair and doubt and frustration. All of those experiences are real, and all of them keep me in the “now.” This art has made me more compassionate, more open-minded, more helpful, more intuitive, more appreciative, and more determined. This art keeps me growing, it keeps me striving, it keeps me hoping, it keeps me evolving.

So maybe it’s not that the art itself is holy, no matter how beautiful or important it is. Maybe it’s the pursuit of art that is holy, however you define your “art.” Does art bring us closer to the Divine? Yes, I believe it does.

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40-Year-Old Mystery Solved: What a Magical Rock Taught Me

The other day, Roger and I popped into a gem store on a whim. As a child, I had a rock collection, and I still love looking at rocks, gems, and crystals. Business was slow that afternoon, so the owner and I got to talking . . . and talking . . . and talking (as I sometimes do).

Suddenly, I remembered a picture I had on my phone and asked if I could show it to him. It’s of a “rock” I picked up when I was about ten years old while walking along a canal in Idaho. I’d tried for years to identify this rock. I’d even asked two friends who were geologists, but no one was sure. The gemologist who owned the store was confident he could identify it.

“Oh, that’s a thunder egg,” he said. “It’s rhyolite on the outside and chalcedony (agate) in the center. They’re found mostly in Oregon. Not sure how yours got to Idaho.”

My guess is someone picked it up, cut it open, started to polish it and realized, it’s really nothing special. I’ve Googled thunder eggs (or thundereggs) and seen some with beautiful insides. Mine is not beautiful. It’s really rather dumpy. So, whoever found it must have tossed it away, not realizing that this “ugly” rock would be prized by some 10-year-old girl who would view it as the star of her collection. Nor could they have guessed that 40 years later, it would still sit on the bookshelf next to my desk.

Now that I know what it is, and I know what it could have been, I love it all the more. This happy discovery capped an hour of pleasant conversation with a stranger who just happened to know the answer to a lifelong mystery.

This story reminds me of a watercolor painting I bought from a friend many years ago of a lakeshore. “Oh no,” she said, when I held it up. “That was one of my early attempts. Let’s find you a better one.”

Too late, I’d already fallen in love with my discovery. It might not have been “technically” as good as the others, but it spoke to me. I recognized that lakeshore, even though I had no idea where it was. She might have thought of that painting as a “dumpy” cousin to her others, but it was a gem to me.

No one can tell us what our treasures will be. It’s up to us to discover them, and marvel over them, and wonder about them. And no one can tell us which of our own creations will be treasured. So, don’t be surprised if the art you toss aside finds its way into someone’s prized collection. Sometimes the best things in life are not “the best.”

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Don’t Hug Me, I’m From Idaho

Idahoans are fiercely independent. At least they were when I was growing up there in the 1970s and 80s. Private property was king. And no one, not even the government, could tell an individual what he/she could do. We guarded our privacy, too, though we were fine with gossiping about our neighbors. We greeted each other with nods, handshakes, gracious smiles, or, in some parts of the state, a tip of the hat.

When my husband and I moved to Colorado in 1992, one of the first people I met was a coworker of his. She invited me to lunch, and as she introduced herself, she threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug. Well, that was different. I mean, we’d only just met. In Idaho, you might have hugged your best friend or close relative, if the occasion called for it, but you didn’t go around hugging strangers.

The first time I visited my husband’s family on their farm for a weekend, Roger and I were driving home and I said, “I think I freaked out your sister.”

“Nothing freaks her out,” he responded. “What did you do?”

“I hugged her good-bye.”

“You did what?” he said. “Oh yeah, you freaked her out.”

Shortly after my first encounter with a Coloradoan, I noticed that several other people out here were pretty free with their hugs. And over time, I loosened up and found myself hugging people too. A little awkwardly at first, but over time with more confidence. In fact, now I’m often the one who happily instigates the hug. It feels pretty natural now.

Last night, we were at a party. I was chatting with a friendly woman I’d met briefly a few times before. As we said our good-byes, she threw her arms open wide and said, “I’m sorry, I’m a hugger.” And I realized something. Here was a woman who walked through life with so much love, she was eager to share it with anyone willing to step into her embrace.

So, I did just that, and she wrapped me in a long, tight, heartfelt hug – the kind you’d give your child or a friend you hadn’t seen in years – rocking me slightly back and forth. I closed my eyes and leaned into it, feeling the weight of her arms, the warmth of her body, the smoothness of her cheek against mine. Feeling her love and gratitude for how far I’ve come. It’s okay to be independent, as long as we never forget we’re also part of a greater whole. It’s okay to value our space, as long as it doesn’t box us in. Sometimes in order to grow, we must first be a little uncomfortable.

A few minutes later, a male friend said good-bye to me with a kiss on the cheek. A kiss? Now, that’s something we definitely wouldn’t have done in Idaho! Vive la différence.

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Why Teenagers Are the Best

I raised three awesome teenagers. I never would’ve guessed when my children were toddlers that I’d be able to say that someday. People were constantly reminding me to “enjoy them while they’re little, because someday they’ll be rotten teenagers.” I was also told to enjoy them while they still wanted to be around me, because someday they wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I was told that teenagers were selfish and rude and self-absorbed and you needed to set firm boundaries or they’d fly off a cliff.

I got to wondering, back when my kids were small, if maybe part of the reason teenagers acted the way they did is because we expected them to. We projected bad behavior on them long before they were even able to imagine what that might be. So, I made a conscious effort never to project that my kids and I would have any problems as they got older. I talked about their upcoming teenage years with excitement, and suggested all the fun things we could do together as they got older, and let them know I liked and respected teenagers.

Now, I’m not saying we never hit any bumpy spots, or that things were always sunshine and roses, and maybe there were a few dicey things I’m not even aware of, but my kids stayed close to my husband and me through their teenage years. They knew we had their backs and we didn’t hold their age against them.

As a society, we criticize teenagers for being too self-absorbed. But I left room for my kids to be just that. I think the point of our teenage years (work and studies aside) should be to go deep, to spend most of our time figuring out who we are, what we’re good at, and what we want. I think we should spend those years trying to understand why some things make us cry and some things make us laugh, why we like some people more than others, and in what moments we even manage to like ourselves.

As someone who works in and studies the arts, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that teens turn so intensely to poetry, music, theater, and art. They have not yet figured out how to put words to their own suffering and elation and are searching for the language to help them define their place in the world. They find themselves in the work of other artists. Then they find themselves in their own art.

It’s not easy being a teenager. I know, I remember. No doubt, you do too. But we need these kids. We need them to grow up strong and creative and self-assured and brave and tolerant and all the things they’re striving to be when they “selfishly” throw themselves into sports, or art, or activism, or even video games.

Fine, so teenagers are hormonal. But you’ll never laugh or cry harder than you do when you’re a teen, and that’s a gift. Fine, so their brains are not yet fully developed and they take silly risks and make big mistakes, but how else are they going to learn? Fine, so teenagers may wish to spend more time with their friends than their parents, but don’t we all choose to be around people who get where we’re at?

Let’s stop talking down to teens and stop talking bad about them. The teenage years shouldn’t be something we all, parents and teens alike, just need to survive. These are important years full of new discoveries, great growth, added responsibility, and  extraordinary potential. Listen to what your teen is playing on the piano, and you’ll likely “hear” how he’s feeling. Read her poetry, and you’ll get a glimpse into her soul. Listen to music with them and pay attention to the lines they sing the loudest, because that’s them finding the language they need to claim their place in the world.

You go, kids!  I think you’re awesome.

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Can Success and Complaining Go Hand in Hand?

I’ve noticed when things are going well, we lose our right to grumble or complain. No one wants to hear it, what’s more, they can’t even fathom why you would want or dare to complain.

Let’s say, for example, you just got that big commission you’ve been hoping for, but the deadline is sooner than you anticipated. When you try to talk about the stress you’re under, people often respond, “Well, that’s the price you pay for success” or “Yeah, but at least you got the commission.”

Let’s say a lot of work has come your way all at once. When you try to discuss the issues you’re having juggling it all, people often respond, “You got this far, you’ll figure it out” Or “Well, this is what you hoped for, why not just enjoy it?”

Let’s say you’ve had a project approved that is exciting and awesome and good, and you know that. But it’s more complicated than you anticipated. When you try to discuss your fears or concerns, people often respond, “Sounds like a good challenge for you” or “Don’t focus on the bad stuff, just think about how great this is.”

When things are going well, it’s kind of like when a thin person complains that she’s too skinny. No one wants to hear it. (And yet, maybe she is concerned she’s lost too much weight).

Every mother of a newborn can tell you that, yes, it’s wonderful to have a child, but it’s also a lot of work, and stress, and exhaustion. And any successful artist or business person can tell you that, yes, it’s amazing to be able to create our work and follow our hearts, but sometimes it’s a lot of work and stress and exhaustion, too.

How refreshing it feels when a friend actually notices that despite all the good things you’re experiencing, you might be struggling a bit. How good it feels when they see you and not just your success and say, “You look tired. You getting enough sleep?” or “You’ve got a lot going on. Anything I can do to help?”  Or “How are things, really?”

One of the definitions of “complain” is: “state that one is suffering from.”  Our feelings are our feelings, and they are never right or wrong. It’s okay to complain once in a while when things are going well. It’s okay to feel thankful, and excited, and empowered, and also to feel overwhelmed, and unsure, and tired.

Just remember that complaining works best when you do so with the hope of achieving a step forward, whether that is through catharsis or emotional relief; through the seeking of sympathy that buoys you; through a tangible offer of assistance in response to your complaint; or through words of advice that help shed light on your troubles.

In the end, all complaints aside, aren’t we lucky to be moving in the direction of our dreams!

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Of Showers and Great Ideas

I get many of my best ideas in the shower, don’t you? But there you are, knuckle-deep in lathering shampoo, and all you can do is repeat the idea over and over until you can dry off and reach for something on which to write it down.

Recently, I thought I’d found the answer to that problem. I learned of a product called Aqua Notes, a waterproof notepad and pencil you can hang in the shower. After it arrived, I hung it up immediately, excited to never again miss a great line for this blog.

It’s been up for 10 days, and while I may have solved one problem, I created another. See, the shower used to be a stress-free zone, and now it’s home to one of the most intimidating things a writer can face, a blank page! They say some of the reasons we get our best ideas in the shower are because we release more dopamine and our brains are pleasantly distracted. I’ve discovered that dopamine and distraction don’t stand a chance when you’ve got a notebook shouting, “Hello! I’m sitting here waiting for all those great ideas. Clearly, you’re not as clever as you thought you were.”

I’ve considered moving the notebook to the wall just outside the shower, but then it will glare at me while I fix my hair or put on make-up. I thought about sticking it in a drawer in the vanity, but I’m likely to slip and kill myself trying to reach it from the tub. I thought about giving it away, so it can torture one of my friends, but I think I’ll keep it around for a while. It’s not the notebook’s fault I’ve frozen up. It’s mine. Who’s the boss here, me or a slip of soggy paper?

Tomorrow, I’ll doodle a little something on the notepad or write an affirmation like “You’re a genius” at the top. Then it won’t be the dreaded empty page I’m facing. It’s a silly, old author’s trick–just put anything down to fool your brain into thinking you’re making progress–but it works.

And one day soon, I’m sure, I’ll be visited again by the water muses. They’ll whisper some awesome idea in my ear, and I’ll be ready, soapy hands and all, to capture their gift before it slips away.

If you’d like to read more about why we get great ideas in the shower, click here.

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The Only Motivational Message You Need

Your company brings in a motivational speaker. The speaker goes on and on about how to improve yourself and your life and your work. Your coworkers are grinning and nodding and applauding, but you just don’t get it. There’s nothing more annoying than listening to someone tell you how easy it is to reinvent yourself when you’re feeling tired or discouraged or hurt. Why do they have to make it sound so easy?

 

Your best friend loans you a book she says transformed her life. You read it, but you just don’t get it. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before. The book says you are special, unique, strong, and powerful, you just need to believe it. Only you don’t really believe it, not lately anyway. Life is weighing you down, problems have piled on, and you don’t feel strong or powerful at all.

 

Your relative sends you an inspirational plaque for your birthday. It encourages you to follow your dreams, live your passion, be your best self. You know you should hang it up, but what does that even mean? You’re not even sure what your dreams are these days, much less your passions. And why isn’t your current self enough, anyway? After all, you’re doing your best.

 

I actually do believe we can transform ourselves and our lives. I believe we are constantly evolving and reinventing ourselves. I believe strongly that when we follow our passion, we do our best work. I believe there is a creative genius in every one of us. But I don’t believe it every minute of every day. And in those moments when I’m feeling doubt or frustration or fear, it’s harder to believe what I believe.

 

Those inspirational speakers and books and plaques that make it sound easy, the ones that suggest it’s simply a matter of choosing to be our best at any given moment, don’t allow much space for our human frailty.

 

So, if you’re just not feeling it right now. If you’re not in the mood to create or balance or improve, cut yourself some slack. The experts don’t have the answers, only you do. What do you need to hear or think or do to get yourself back on track? What rebuilds your spirit? What speaks truth to you even in your darkest moments? Find that. Follow that. It might be what worked in the past, or it might be the opposite now. Even the things that motivate us can change.

 

If a speaker or book or quote does resonate with you, listen. That’s your Higher Self tapping you on the shoulder and saying, “Did you get that?”

 

And if it doesn’t—even though everyone else seems to be on board—trust yourself. Trust that you are not alone. Somewhere deep in your heart, you know what message you need to hear. And if you can get to a place of patience and quiet, you might just hear it. 

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Your Friends May Not Be Your Audience

I was watching an episode of Fresh Off the Boat last night in which Jessica realized her husband had never finished reading the novel she wrote. It reminded me of something my marketing-manager husband once said, “Your friends and family are not your audience.”

He’s not entirely correct, of course. Some of your friends and family might be your audience, and some may support your art just to be nice, even though it’s not really their style. But others may never care all that much about the art you produce.

Because our art feels personal, because it reflects our interests, skills, talents, and views, we assume (or at least hope) those to whom we feel closest will love it the way they love us. Sometimes, it can’t help but feel like a bit of a rejection if they don’t.

But where’s the logic in that, really? Art is subjective. If everyone loved the same art, we’d need only one type of artist. So why shouldn’t some of our friends and relatives reject our art, and why does that have to feel personal?

It’s like when you make a big batch of spaghetti for friends, only to discover one doesn’t like tomato sauce. Do you let that ruin the whole evening? Do you beat yourself up over cooking “the wrong thing?” Do you resent them for “rejecting” your dish? Or do you accept it as truth when they say, “That’s okay, I’m happy to just eat the salad, bread, and dessert.” In other words, “That’s okay. We don’t share the same taste in food, but I’m still happy to be in your company.”

It’s not up to other people to love the things we produce. It’s great if they do, and no big deal if they don’t. Because on the same day your favorite relative confesses he/she doesn’t really “get” your art, some stranger will e-mail to tell you it moved them to tears. Your audience is out there, you just need to find them. And your friends and family are still your friends and family, even if they don’t appreciate your art. This is one hurt you can stop inflicting on yourself.

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