Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 3

Riding the Creative Waves

I’ve been under some stress lately, which has inhibited my creative thinking. It’s hard to focus on building something new when you’re more focused on keeping your head above water. But is that even true, or just a convenient excuse? Many artists throughout the centuries have produced amazing works of art while living through circumstances much more dire than mine.

Think of the World War I poets; or Modigliani pushing boundaries while suffering from tuberculosis and alcoholism, and languishing in poverty; or Billie Holiday who lived in the shadow of a difficult childhood, legal problems, and drug use, to say nothing of racism.

There are days when I tell myself if I were a “real artist,” like them, I could power through my doubts and worries and hold fast to a creative schedule. If I were a “real artist” I could turn the struggles into inspiration. If I were a “real artist” my art would save me.

On those days, I tell myself all I have to do is “find the joy again,” and everything will “go back to normal.” The joy is still there, after all. I felt it recently while hosting my art salons, and when I spoke to a young artist about some ideas she had for her business, and often while I write this blog.

Somehow, even in the midst of truly terrible circumstances, all of those great artists must have still been able to tap into the joy of creating, right? Or maybe it wasn’t joy, it was obsession or desperation or a panacea.

Possibly. Regardless, that was their journey, not mine. I think for most of us, our output is tied more closely to the natural rise and fall of creative tides, and we, as artists, made a choice to step into a boat and venture out into this ocean. We can also choose at any time to dock the boat for good. On some level, most of us know that. When it gets hard, when it gets frustrating, when it breaks our hearts, we know we can take the boat back to the dock anytime we want. No one is forcing us to ride these waves.

Some artists do just that. They retire and look back fondly on their careers. Others ignore their personal warning signs and keep going until the boat capsizes in a storm. Either way, it’s helpful to remember our artistic destinies are not all up to fate. We have a say in what we choose to take from this journey, in what we choose to learn. And if part of what we learn is that our art matters, and it also doesn’t matter, that’s profound. If we stopped creating art today, the world would go on. If we let go of our artist identities, we would find new ones. Our art does not define us, and there is no such thing as a “real artist.” There is only art that feels real.

The fact is, I can still find the joy in creating. Maybe not as often as I used to, maybe not in the same way as before, but it’s still there. So, I’m still here. And I’ve decided I will be until that joy is gone. Then I’ll look for something new to bring me purpose or contentment and I’ll think back fondly on all I created.

While I’m still choosing to be in the boat for now, I’m no longer pushing so hard to get as far away from the pier as possible. I’ve learned that sometimes you have to return to port and spend some time making repairs to the boat if you want it to stay seaworthy. It’s a rough ride out there, after all, but when the sea is calm, and the breeze is mild, and the dolphins are jumping beside the boat, you can see the horizon, and it’s a breathtaking view.

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Still Living in the Summer of ’79

This past week on my newsletter, I wrote about wishing this year I could have the kind of summer I had when I was 12. You know, staying up late playing hide-and-go-seek in the dark, sleeping in and watching game shows all morning, reading books, and splashing in the pool. Spending lots of time laughing with friends, and a good deal of time alone with my thoughts. Sounds idyllic.

It wasn’t idyllic, of course. My family had its fair share of problems, and they surfaced plenty that summer. My current challenges would likewise do the same even if I “took the summer off.”

In spending a little time with my twelve-year-old self, though, while writing that newsletter greeting, I remembered how much I liked her. And marveled at how alike we still are. It may be true that we all grow up, but maybe we never grow out of ourselves. Maybe the person we are at age two, or ten, or twenty is still the person we are today, just a little older and more seasoned in this thing we call life.

My twelve-year-old self was a dreamer. One minute imagining stories in her head or feeding dialogue to her friends in some make-believe game. The next minute dreaming she was a UN ambassador or the person who discovered the cure for cancer. She could be so silly when she wasn’t being so serious.

She was also a builder. She loved building things from scratch. Whether that was a new game for the neighbor kids, or a magic show, or a tower of cards.  She colored in the lines, but with the goal of using every crayon in the box. She cried hardest when she was angry and loved with all her heart.

She was kinda lazy, to be honest, but hardworking when something mattered to her. She tried to be a good girl, always, unless the situation was unjust, then she let you know it. She wasn’t much of an outdoors girl (too hot and dirty for her), but she marveled at nature and felt a kinship to all living beings. More than anything, she wanted to be honest, to be herself, in any situation, at any time, but found there were few times and with few people she could achieve that.

My twelve-year-old self loved the arts. All of the arts. Theater, music, movies, books, sculptures in the park. She wanted to be a writer someday. Maybe an actress. Maybe a better singer than she was.

She was a learner, but she loved summer precisely because there was no school. She learned by observing, by listening, by thinking, and by imagining. She believed anything was possible and people were mostly good, but she also knew life could let you down, and you could let yourself down, and she feared those things.

She loved to travel, to meet new people, to gather up new experiences. She annoyed but protected her brother, delighted and infuriated her mother, was a mystery to her father, and was as good a friend as she could be. She was far, far from perfect, but she tried.

We can’t go back in time, but we can bring time back to us. We can revisit memories, reconnect with old friends, return to the places where we grew up. But mostly, we can go inside ourselves and remember who we are at our core. Not who we think we’re supposed to be, not who they expect us to be, but who we have always been deep in our souls. And from there, we can create. Create art, create love, create meaning, create joy.

Spend a little time with your twelve-year-old self this summer and see what you can create together.

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Go Ahead and Rage It Out

Let me tell you about my rage journal. It’s one of my favorite ongoing writing projects, but you’ll never read any of the pages. No one will. In fact, I’ll never even get to reread what I wrote. And that’s the beauty of this project.

It started when I was on my 18-month sabbatical, dealing, for the first time in my life, with bonafide depression and anxiety and several health issues. One of the healers I work with recommended the book, Healing Back Pain: The Mind-Body Connection, by Dr. John E. Sarno, in which Sarno posits that much of the pain we experience along the spinal column is actually suppressed anger or anxiety. One night, while reading the book, I grabbed a piece of paper and started writing down everything that was making me angry. I decided not to hold back a single thought. I literally raged onto the page.

Some of what I wrote was logical, given my circumstances. I was furious about all the doctors’ appointments, and the money I was spending, and all the supplements and medications I was taking. Some of it, though, was less logical, like my anger with myself because I couldn’t “make myself better,” or my annoyance with well-meaning friends whose advice was solid, but unwanted. Every last angry thought came pouring out.

In the end, I tore the pages out of the notebook, crumpled them up, and threw them away. I did this because I didn’t want anyone to come across my brutally honest but “unhinged” and “unkind” thoughts. But I quickly realized it was partly in crumpling up those pages and throwing them away that I felt release. In fact, I think I may have cried in that moment. It wasn’t just getting that anger out of me onto the page that helped, it was also destroying the physical representation of it and putting it someplace it could no longer hurt me (the trash can, and later the shredder, and one time, the flame).

Having spent my entire life as a people-pleaser and someone who never wants to intentionally hurt anyone, there are times when I shock myself by the truly hateful things I write into that journal. While I would never act on any of those thoughts – at least I hope I wouldn’t – it’s still alarming to confront those demons. But if you don’t confront them, you can’t cast them out.

I love my rage journal. I also love my morning gratitude blessings, and my meditation time, and all the practices I rely on to bring me to places of love, peace, acceptance, and surrender. But sometimes it just feels good to have a temper tantrum on the page, and then to shake it off.

You may be wondering if starting my rage journal did release some of my back and psoas pain. It did! And when it starts to come back, I pull out my journal, and it goes away again. You may doubt that — and that’s your prerogative — but I can’t help wondering if we Americans are so extraordinarily ill because we live in a society in which we’re constantly told anger isn’t healthy for us. Because it turns out, it is if you’re honest with yourself, if it motivates you to make changes, if it gives you the energy to fight for what’s right, if it helps you to acknowledge, accept, and love your shadow self.

I’d still recommend, though, burning those pages when you’re done.

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Have a Very Human Day

I left a phone message today for a truly lovely person who closed out their voicemail greeting with the popular saying, “Make it a great day.” Am I the only one who cringes when I hear that directive?

Or maybe you’ve read it on a bumper sticker or seen it on a sign? Sometimes it’s rephrased as, “Have a great day, or don’t. The choice is up to you.” That irritates me even more.

Because, frankly, some days are not going to be great no matter what, and they don’t need to be. That’s simply the human experience. If your grandmother just died, you have permission to be sad about that all day. If you were unjustly fired from your job, you have permission to be angry. If you didn’t sleep last night because you’re waiting for your medical test results, you have permission to be exhausted and worried. And if you are experiencing depression or serious heartache, you might not have a great day for quite a while. In those cases, we know you can’t simply will yourself out of it, much as you may like to.

I think it especially bothers me to see those “great day” directives on posters hanging in school hallways or the children’s section of a library. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a kid who is still learning how to distinguish, process, and experience their emotions, to say nothing of trying to control them. I’d far rather we hang a sign that says, “Whether You’re Having a Great Day or Not, We Love You” or “Laugh if You Can, Cry If You Need To.”

I truly don’t mean to offend anyone who sees those “great day” expressions as invitations for us all to maintain a positive attitude. You’re 100% correct that looking on the bright side is helpful much of the time. Taking a moment to put things into perspective can help re-establish equilibrium. Focusing on the things you’re grateful for can lift the spirits. Finding humor in the toughest situations can be lifesaving. The trouble with urging people to, “smile,” is you don’t know if smiling is what they really need right now.

As I’m writing this, I’m having a good day. I sincerely hope you are, too. If not, that’s okay. One thing’s for certain, regardless of how it turns out, each and every one of us are going to have a very human day. And, thankfully, that’s all we must truly make of it.

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Art is the Language of the Soul

Next month, I’m hosting my friend, Katie Huey, to teach her class called, “Actually, There Are Words: A Writing Workshop for Life’s Disruptions.” She’s going to lead us in using wordplay, poetry, and writing prompts to “put words to our difficult experiences of loss, transition, or disruption.”

In the past week, my husband and I each lost members of our extended families. Many of my friends are also working through losses right now, large and small. Many others are in stages of transition (think: new empty nesters or leaving jobs they once loved). Other friends, though, are soaring, and I’m as happy for them as I am sad for my friends who are suffering. Life is always a series of highs and lows, and we all take our turns in each space.

Today, inside a box containing a phone case we’d ordered, we found a sticker of a llama wearing sunglasses. Why the company thought to include a sticker that had nothing to do with their product, I’m not sure, but that little piece of art that arrived in a wholly unexpected way provided a much-needed lift to my spirits.

Katie is right, there are plenty of words we can use to console those who are hurting, and plenty of words we can use to console ourselves. But on those occasions when the words are hard to find, there is always art.  Art is, after all, the language of the soul.

So, if you’re struggling to put your love into words, let an artist do the heavy lifting for you. Look for that card with the loveliest illustration and the perfect message, or that gracefully arranged bouquet, or even that funny image you can text to them. If it’s you who is hurting, put on your favorite playlist or watch your comfort movies. Remember, wherever you are now, an artist has gone there before you.

Yes, there are words, and we should never feel afraid to use them. But there are also songs, and pictures, and stickers of llamas wearing sunglasses to make you feel a little less alone.

Thank you, artists! You’ll never know all the souls to whom your work has spoken.

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Has Your Yes Become a No?

A friend and I were chatting the other day about directions we were considering for our work, weighing the need to make money against our current desires, etc. We’re both feeling the urge to stretch and grow, but also a longing for peace and contentment. How the heck do you achieve such a balance?

At one point, we started talking about the concept of when a “yes” becomes a “no,” and when a “no” becomes a “yes.” There are projects I worked on successfully for years, for example, that I let slide during the pandemic. I could easily pick those up again. They are things I totally know how to do, so it wouldn’t be hard. But I don’t really want to. Somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, those projects that were once a strong yes for me are now a no.

I started down the path of trying to figure out what had changed, but that didn’t feel like the best use of my creative energy. The fact is, something has changed, and I’m no longer the person who wants to do those things.

There are so many reasons why we hold on to something that was once a yes but has become a no. It could be because we’re scared to change, it could be because we don’t want to let go of the money, it could be because we know we were good at something and it seems silly to walk away from something you’re good at. Maybe we simply miss the excitement we once felt for a project and believe if we tweaked it a bit, it would feel as good as it once did. Maybe we made a long-ago promise to ourselves or someone else that we would always do something, and we don’t want to break that promise. Maybe at one time we were convinced that endeavor was something we were “meant to do,” and we don’t want to fail at our life’s purpose.

Whatever the reason, it almost never works to try to convince yourself something is a yes when it has already become a no.

On the flip side, a no can also become a yes. How many times did my younger self say, “I will never . . .” and here I am years later doing whatever I swore I’d never do. I think a no often becomes a yes when we let go of fear. Maybe we said “no” too quickly because we were afraid we didn’t have the time, the skills, or the talent to do what was asked of us. Maybe we said no because we made a flip judgement about the project or person and assumed it would reflect poorly on us without bothering to learn more. Maybe we said no because we tried something similar in the past and it didn’t work, and we don’t want to get hurt again.

The funny thing about no is, it has two vibrations. The first is the “hell, no” vibration when you just know deep down this is not for you. The second is the “um, no” vibration that contains a certain hesitancy. That hesitation might be trying to tell you something. That said, even a “hell, no” could surprise you and become a yes in time, so stay open.

Since my conversation with my friend, weighing the yes against the no has become part of my decision-making process. As with so many other things, I’ve discovered deciding between yes and no is really about stepping into this moment and this current version of me. It’s an exercise in letting go of the past and moving toward whatever feels like my best future at this time. It’s not about compromising my values or principles, but it is about giving myself permission to change. It’s about asking myself if that yes still feels true to me today. If not, it’s a no.

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Will You Let the Universe Use You?

I ran into a former client from my days as a writer’s coach. She’d self-published a memoir about living with a certain disease. She was telling me all the efforts she’d made to market the book, but it never really caught on, except with the local nurses. She said they recommended her book often and would tell her how much it was helping their patients. “So, you made a difference,” I said. And she agreed. For those people, her book helped them heal.

I was listening to an interview with Pharrell Williams, who wrote one of my favorite songs, “Happy.” The interviewer was prodding him to say how he felt about creating a song that had become a worldwide sensation. He answered, “The universe used me.” It was a humble acknowledgment for a song that is widely viewed as genius.

My books are not genius, but like my client, I know they made a difference to some people. Mostly, they made a difference to me and to the handful of special people who inspired each of my seven novels. Shirley Brand was one of those people. I met her at the Greeley library when I was doing some World War II research. She was a volunteer, and she became the inspiration for my children’s book, Doing My Part. Shirley lived alone. She’d never married and had no children, although she had a niece with whom she was close. When the book came out, I hosted a book signing in Greeley in her honor. She wondered if anyone would show up. In walked people who, though she taught them in kindergarten, came to tell her she’d always been their favorite teacher. Some of her former friends and neighbors came too. It was “my night,” premiering my new book, but even I knew, it was really “her night.” And I wanted it to be.

When she passed away, her niece sent me her obituary, which included a mention of my book and noted it was one of the things in Shirley’s life for which she felt the most pride.

If I imagine my life as a Hollywood movie, the film would end with one of those tear-jerker scenes in which I’m standing on a stage accepting a major award for my writing, having just past the million-sale mark, and with producers clamoring for the movie rights. As I’m on the stage, I see the spirit of Shirley sitting in the audience beaming, and everyone and everything else fades away, and it’s just me and her again. And I know that no matter what accolades the book garners, nothing really matters but the two of us and the story we told.

The universe used me, too, just like it used my client, and just like it used Pharrell, because I needed that book, and so did Shirley, and maybe so did a few other souls who’ve read it. And like Pharrell, I’m humbled and eternally grateful.

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A Little Distance Can Bring More Connection

In 1988, I spent a semester studying at West Chester University in Pennsylvania. Most of my friends, my family, and my boyfriend (who is now my husband) were far away in Idaho. This was a time when long-distance calling was not cheap or convenient, not to mention there was only one shared pay phone on our dorm floor, and everyone could hear your conversation. This was pre-personal computers and long before cell phones and texting, so the best way to communicate was through letters.

Each day, I’d check my tiny mailbox in the dorm lobby, praying for a card or letter. On a good day, there was one, on a great day, there were two or three. Sometimes I’d save a letter in case I didn’t receive any the next day. I’d flop down on the tiny dorm-room cot and devour my letters. I could recognize the handwriting on the envelopes, so I knew exactly who they were from even before I checked the return address label.

It took four to five days for letters to reach me from Idaho, so most of the news was at least a week old, but I lingered over every word.  When I wrote my responses, my own stories were mostly the same in each letter, but how I told them differed depending on the recipient. Some people got the full story, emotions and all, some people got only the facts. You had to be very present while writing a letter, not just to watch your handwriting, or make sure you spelled things correctly, but also to gauge what each person wanted to hear, or what each person could handle hearing.

The other day, a friend led us in a mindfulness exercise with a piece of chocolate. She told us the story of the chocolate first, then invited us to look at it in the light, then smell it, then tap our finger on it to see if it made a sound, then take a small bite and let it melt in our mouths. After all that attention, I can promise you the chocolate tasted incredible.

That’s how it felt to receive and then respond to a letter. Holding my breath on the way to the mailbox, the sound of the key in the lock, the texture of the different stationaries, sometimes a scent on the paper. That moment you took to arrange your pillows just right so you could read in comfort. The way you’d hold some letters to your chest to cherish them. The excitement as you chose the right stationary and the best pen with which to write back.

It’s just not the same with texting, is it? Someone fires off a question, and you fire back an answer. Or you receive a text you can barely decipher because the auto-correct changed the words. There’s no more waiting and wondering for two weeks before you receive a response. In fact, we grow irritated if the response isn’t instantaneous. If someone asks you a deep question, “How are you feeling about what happened,” you respond with a sentence or two. . . “Still annoyed, but I’m getting over it.” There are pages and pages of context in that statement that are missing.

In the days of letters, we got to focus on one or two people at a time. Now, we might get multiple texts from multiple people all in one day. So much to track, so many decisions to make on the spot, so many possibilities to screw up by saying the wrong thing or forgetting to respond.

This isn’t a diatribe about texting. It has its uses and, besides, it’s here to stay. It’s more a reflection on how hard it is, sometimes, to live in this vastly busier and more connected-yet-disconnected world.

I used to have to wait weeks to learn how my friend’s boss took the news they were quitting, now I only have to wait minutes. Yet, most of the time, I feel like we know so much less about each other now that we are in constant contact than we did when we had to hold our friends in our thoughts and prayers for weeks.

Letters, of course, were not perfect. You could still read something that was off-base or even hurtful, or a piece of encouragement that came to late, or a suggestion that was no longer useful. But you understood that someone had taken their time and energy to send you those words in writing. In that sense, whether they agreed with you or not, the fact that they responded at all showed how much you mattered.

I’m not naïve enough to believe we’re all going to embrace letter writing again, but I do hope we can find our way back toward remembering there’s a person on the other end of that text message and let them know they matter, even if that means holding off on our responses until we can get centered and say what we really want to say in the best way we can think of to say it.

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Let Loose Your Harebrained Ideas

My husband and I have reached some turning points in our creative endeavors, including the ones we’re working on as a team. So, I suggested that every day for a month, we write down one harebrained idea for how we could advance our work or make more money. I called them “harebrained ideas” because I wanted to give us permission to write down any thought, no matter how crazy it sounded. Because sometimes crazy is where creativity begins.

We divided the paper into two columns, one for him and one for me. We’re each allowed to pitch wild ideas to each other, and if there’s a suggestion that would involve us both, it goes into both of our columns. Nothing is off the table. We’re throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks.

We’re also not allowed to overanalyze the ideas. No poking holes in them. No pressure to decide right now that the idea is the one we should take action on. After all, if we let them percolate, it’s possible we’ll see a way to combine them, and wouldn’t that be extra cool? If nothing else, after a month of staring at our ideas on a page, we’ll have a sense of which ones still excite us.

As the days pass, some of the ideas seem less and less outlandish. I mean, really, wasn’t the idea that someone could build a flying vehicle or a bulb that would emit light at one point considered absurd? It takes the pressure off realizing our ambitions are not nearly as high as that. We’re not trying to change the world, at this point, we’re just hoping to bring it, and ourselves, a little more joy.

I’m not sure if we’ll follow through on any of our harebrained ideas, but just putting them down on paper has already spurred me toward one new goal. If nothing else, it’s just plain fun to think about, especially since we know this is not a contract. It’s not binding. It’s actually the opposite. It’s freedom! Freedom to imagine that anything, no matter how ludicrous, is possible.

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The Art of Vacationing in Your Mind

We recently returned from a four-week trip to New Zealand. We’d arranged our air fare, car rental, and lodging in advance, but had intentionally planned nothing else. We’ve discovered on these longer trips a distinct freedom in going with no set expectations. There were certain things we hoped to see while we were there, and many things we didn’t even know existed until after we’d arrived.

Each evening, we’d take a look at the weather for the next day and gauge whether we were in the mood to do a lot or a little, to be outside or inside, etc.  We’d also arranged to spend three to four nights in each location to allow us the most time and opportunity to see and do everything that area had to offer. In the end, we saw so many beautiful sites, learned a lot about the New Zealand and Māori cultures, ate some amazing meals, and came home with no regrets.

But we noticed something else, too. We slept like babies on this trip, despite changing beds so often. We took our travel-size white noise machines and adjusted our sleep schedule a bit, and maybe those things helped. There was none of that waking in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep. No racing thoughts or nagging worries pestering us at 3:00 a.m. Maybe that was partly because, other than driving on the other side of the road, our stress was minimal. Maybe it was because we were half a world away from our troubles and concerns. Maybe it was because we didn’t need to check e-mail or social media, and the time change made it too cumbersome to send very many texts.

Of course, as soon as we got home, all those daily distractions returned. And so did our interrupted sleep. I was speaking to a friend about this, and she asked what I thought was different about being in “vacation mode.”

Two things really. The first is obvious. Designated vacations send a message to our brains that they’re allowed to take some time off. In fact, they’re expected to. Relaxation is the focus. But I think it’s also when we’re on vacation, we’re looking for the beauty in the world. We’re paying more attention when people talk, partly to decipher and enjoy their accents, and partly to receive their help or knowledge. On vacation, we’re so focused on the simple act of navigating a new place, there’s no brain space or energy left for anything else. More importantly, we wander into each day with an expectation that it will be special.

I do believe it would help if I could approach every day with that same expectation. It would certainly lower my already raised stress level. But I also acknowledge that daily life issues are far more difficult sometimes than figuring out how to count out cash in a foreign currency. Adulting is hard, as my grown children love to remind me, and virtually every day since I’ve been home has presented me with a new challenge or frustration.

But humans were bestowed a special gift – memory. It’s entirely possible for me to close my eyes, breathe deeply, and transport myself back to that white sand beach, or that boat ride through the Milford Sound, or that charming little park we stumbled upon at exactly the moment we wanted to eat the sandwiches we’d packed.

Vacations don’t take our problems and worries away, but they give us a much-needed respite and remind us the worlds of our memories or imaginations are every bit as real as the world in which we are living now, so why not visit them often?

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