"How do I really want to be?"

Those words, written by Pema Chodrun, have been echoing in my head since writing the last post. Taking a few steps back, I've realized that several factors have been affecting my mood: the negativity and despair surrounding the American election; the long slog here through the end of winter; lingering illness; disappointment and some worry about things that happened during our trip to Mexico. All of that has contributed to difficulty getting back on track with positive forward momentum. This is the hardest time of year for me, as it is for many people living in the north, and my journal confirms that it's usually that way for me. I just have to get through it. On top of that, it's the penitential season of Lent, and we've got a couple more weeks to go, plus the grimness of the Holy Week singing marathon, before things start to lighten up. Unlike the Mexican church below, our Anglican cathedral doesn't allow flowers during Lent, let alone red ones!

But as I thought about all of this, and about my role as an artist, and heard from some friends both in comments and in emails, Pema's words began to resound: "How do I really want to be?" She was talking about facing difficulties, too, and particularly about the loneliness of spiritual leadership (in her case); all of us face different kinds of existential loneliness. She wrote that she posed this question to herself, "and then I began to settle down." I understood. For me, it's the key question, unlocking the door I had temporarily forgotten.

So the first thing I've done is to get back on my meditation cushion, back on the piano bench, and back to some quiet, repetitive work: hand-quilting the pieced top that I began many months ago.

At the same time, I've been thinking about art and writing in the context of Pema's words, and also in the words of my friend Natalie d'Arbeloff, who wrote that while many artists are able to do powerful images of protest, or showing the tragedies and gruesome side of our world, "that is not my path." And it's not mine, either. While I appreciate the sculpture by muralist David Alfaro Siqueiros, below, his often-tortured vision of the world doesn't move me - it disturbs me and assaults me. It's too much.

 

"How do I want to be?" is another way of asking "Who do I want to be?" and the answer to that is that I want to be a person who sees, and helps other people see, the beauty and love that exist in the world in spite of everything.

I am having trouble with a kind of focus on beauty, prettiness, gentility, and pastoral niceness that feels like the artist's head is in the sand. You don't find this in societies where there is a lot of poverty, violence and oppression, except among the ruling classes: the people who because of social standing and privilege are able to live apart from other people's suffering and difficulties. What you do find, outside the ruling classes, is often exuberance, color, and a deliberate embrace of what is beautiful in life: human relationships, simplicity, animals, food, children, natural vegetation, "place" in relation to people, play, warmth. I remember being told by a priest who had spent a long time working with Oscar Romero in El Salvador that, to his surprise, he had learned the most about joy from people who had endured the most suffering. I've spent enough time in Mexico now to believe that this is absolutely true.

This reflecting I've been doing has not shown me a clear path yet, but it's showing me what I don't want to do, and have never wanted to do: I don't want to be the naysayer, the bearer of terrible news, the person who dwells on the negative and beats people over the head with guilt, whether it's about the environment or politics or oppression or war. For articulate people to speak out is important; and helping financially, personally, and through our talents and skills is essential for all of us who can -- but the negative is not where I want to focus my entire creative energy. Yes, our eyes become clouded by what we see and it affects us, sometimes a great deal, to the point where we get stuck and can descend into depression and inactivity. But when I look at our extraordinary world, and at most of my fellow human beings, what I feel is love: in spite of everything. And love is always meant to be transformative.

So the work is actually not work at all: it's stepping away from the noise, getting one's head out of the way, and allowing that transformation to happen, whether for the first time or the thousandth. We all have our own ways of getting back on center, of taking care of ourselves, starting with the simple awareness of our breath and the miraculous fact that we are here, in this present moment. Going back to basics isn't a failure, it's essential -- and in my case, that's exactly where I'm headed.