The Slow Emergence of Creativity

"A tree as great as a man's embrace springs from a small shoot;
A terrace nine stories high begins with a pile of earth;
A journey of a thousand miles starts under one's feet." 
--Lao Tzu

In these words, Lau Tzu captures the challenges of spring that have been weighing heavily upon me.  I keep thinking about seeds and bulbs.  I find myself impatiently waiting for the bulbs I planted in the fall to slowly starting making their way through the earth and into the air so I can see them.  All I see now is bare dirt.  I worry. I wonder.  I hope.  I try to control the things I cannot control.  So I keep worrying. I keep wondering. I keep hoping. 

The challenge of spring is staying the course.  It is staying focused, not on what I can't control, but on the work of nurturing all the small steps that are the foundation of creativity. I am working on the small steps of a book, reminding myself that I need to take each step if I want to get anywhere. I can't just wake up one morning with a book fully written.  It takes self-compassion, commitment, hard work, love, and trust.  Yet, my impatience grows. I get distracted. I think about the immensity of the end goal. This paralyzes me with fear and an overwhelming sense of my human limitations.  In that paralysis, I think about my bulbs. I grow impatient.  Almost to the point that I want to dig a little, just to take a peek at what is going on down there in the depths of that fertile earth.  The spring does that to me.  It wakes me up. The snow has melted. The grass is getting greener. It should be time, right? It's been a long winter and I'm ready to see some results of that hibernation.

Mu Cang Chai, Vietnam. vietnamhotels.net

The creative process tests me in all sorts of ways.  I imagine an expansive terrace and I want that to be me. I want to be that completed creation. I don't want to think about the process involved in making that terrace. I don't want to think about the years of labor.  I don't want to think of the layers of dirt.  I just want that fertile valley in all its glory. But that is not how that terrace came into being. It was a slow, organic process.  It took thousands upon thousands of small steps. It moved forward and backward, depending on all kinds of unpredictable elements--such as weather and people.  It took compassion, commitment, hard work, love, and trust.  As it states on the Inspiration Green website:  "Terraced Farms: when it rains, instead of washing away the soil, the soil stays in place. Nutrients are also held in place or carried down to the next level." It is a slow and orchestrated process.  It takes a lot of planning and a lot of trust. 

If only I could understand that completely.  If only I could be patient and intentional.  If only I could trust in the process with consistency.  Instead, I get edgy and crabby with impatience.  My anxiety grows.  I worry.  I want it now, today.  I try to hold tight to the small daily steps--and sometimes that feels amazing.  I can feel the world opening up within me.  But on other days I feel the sensation of dread and worry take over.  Where can I find solace?  Where can I find trust?  If I listen to Lao Tzu, it's in the focus and intention of each step.  It is coming to the humbling reality that creation and creative processes are anything but final and done. They are ongoing steps that do not prosper and develop in the realm of control.  Ongoing small steps can take us into amazing places. Unexpectedly beautiful places.  I need to remember that right now.   I need to sit and be patient. I need self-compassion, commitment, hard work, love, and trust. 

Stoking the Embers, Tending the Fire

Last week, Matt and I had a bonfire in his backyard as a way to celebrate the beginning of warmer weather.  I was a bit restless and found myself constantly tending the fire.  I had so many thoughts trigger as I started to look at the fire as a metaphor for my own internal fire.  The bonfire provides an opportunity to for me to meditate on the fire element within me, something that I always feel is a weaker part of my constitution.  It always feels like something that needs more of my attention.  It needs more focus.  More stoking.  

Balancing Tending to the Fire

As I tended the fire, I could see myself in those flames. I began to understand how I think about fire. I kept focused on burning away the old paper and wood that had accumulated in the fire pit over the winter.  I wanted it to be burned away and out before adding too much new wood.  But the old stuff was still a bit damp and it was tough to keep the fire blazing.  I want to keep the flames high and hot in order to burn away that old damp shit at the bottom of the pit, so I added small dry pieces to keep the flames going, pushing the old stuff into the flames. I just wanted that old stuff gone, burned away, so we could have a fresh fire pit for the summer. What I soon realized, though, was that my constant tending was not the best way to stoke the fire's sustainability. I kept futzing with with the fire and causing it to go from high flames, to nearly losing the fire altogether.  Could there be a better metaphor for my own capacity to maintain my internal fire?  I am constantly futzing and meddling, because I think that to have that fire, it has to be a blaze. My capacity to see the middle ground and acknowledge the heat that embers can produce is in its most infant stages in my mind. 

 When I took a moment to sit and watch the fire, I saw that it could live without my constant attention.  When I let myself sit and watch the fire find it's own balance, I was captivated by the way it knew, just knew how to move and shift between the dry ease of the new planks of wood and the deeper work of burning off the damp residue of accumulated winter fragments. I saw that I didn't need to move the wood around all the time to keep the flames high.  It would move through a natural progression, burning and moving in its own way.  I would get up occasionally to add some wood or stir things around so that the damper pieces could move toward the heat and take their time burning away.  It was invigorating to see the way the fire could find its own balance and that left me thinking about how my internal fire needs space. It needs room to develop and create its own heat.  

Much like my previous post, I need to make space in order to move away from the momentum produced by the easy fast burn of dry wood and to start to go deeper into the spaces that need a hotter, deeper, longer-lasting heat that only embers can produce.  Those deeper pieces that benefit from the slow burn.  Routine and movement in and through myself is key to keeping the embers stoked, but I do not need to create excessive flames and heat to experience the value of fire.  In fact, I need more embers in my life.  Less volatile flames and more sustainable and containable heat that energizes and wakes me up from the long winter.  

It's No Longer about Momentum

The past week (more like 10 days)  has been challenging.  Kapha keeps pushing and pulling me into spaces I'd rather not be.  Uncomfortable spaces.  Lonely and fearful spaces.  What is different for me this season with kapha, though, is that I have been able to stand apart and watch myself a little bit more and not get pulled down the rabbit hole so completely, totally, and fearfully. I have been able to recognize relatively quickly that it is perception that drags me into some of those sink holes. And it's fighting the seasonal shifts that can get me into a hell of a lot of trouble.  What  I mean by that is that it is that I'm realizing how important it is to work smart with my routines and activities.  It is less about getting the stick out and being aggressive and mean to those sinking urges.  It is more about focus and intention, so that the feelings that kapha promote do not take over and define me in the ways that they have in the past.


What became clear to me is that relying on the momentum of my vata energy is not a way to develop the focus and intention I need to keep kapha balanced and effective. Relying on momentum often means that when that energy is gone, I am left in a muddy puddle, unable to keep the fire moving old stagnant energy out of my body. Meditation over the past several days keeps taking me to a place where I hear myself saying, "It's no longer about momentum. It's about digging deeply and finding the real energy and fire that is bound up and trapped in your fears."


And it is fear that keeps me from going down the rabbit hole with curiosity and joy.  It is the fear that once down there, I will never get out, that immediately takes over.  Rather than being curious about the discovery and possibility of the treasures that are awaiting me, I am often overwhelmed with the fear of never escaping the rhizomatic tangles that shape the earth.  When I stop trying to fight my way out and wasting energy, I am able to observe my inner world a bit more closely. I see that there is an amazing storehouse of energy, creativity, and life just waiting for me to recognize it, embrace it, know it.  So my work as of late has been focusing on that fire in my solar plexus.  It is about nurturing that fire and staying curious about the trappings of depth and darkness. It is about opening up to the energy that is there and no longer relying on surface momentum that takes me nowhere but deeper into my fears. The abstract fears that really do not have a home aside from my mind's perceptions and stories of what I thought was supposed to be.  Now it is about finding that energy storehouse within.

Tao Teh Ching: Chapter 41
The wise student hears of the Tao and practices it diligently.
The average student hears of the Tao and gives it thought now and again.
The foolish student hears of the Tao and laughs aloud.
If there were no laughter, the Tao would not be what it is.

Hence it is said:
The bright path seems dim;
Going forward seems like retreat;
The easy way seems hard;
The highest Virtue seems empty;
Great purity seems sullied;
A wealth of Virtue seems inadequate;
The strength of Virtue seems frail;
Real Virtue seems unreal;
The perfect square has no corners;
Great talents ripen late;
The highest notes are hard to hear;
The greatest form has no shape.
The Tao is hidden and without name.
The Tao alone nourishes and brings everything to fulfillment.

Velocity & the Spring Melt Down

"You must learn to be still in the midst of activity and to be vibrantly alive in repose." -Indira Ghandi

I think about the tension between velocity and stagnation, stillness and vibrancy, as I look at the pool of water at the foot of my deck stairs.  One moment a pool of mucky wetness catching the leaves, dirt, and shit that lay waiting beneath the winter's snow. The next moment a frozen layer trapping all those leaves, dirt, and shit. There has been an ongoing cycle of melting and freezing at that spot that marks the threshold of my backyard.  One moment I wonder what can possibly be alive beneath that frozen layer.  The next moment I wonder how all that thick and heavy fecundity can possibly be the source of something beautiful and fresh. 

"It is satisfying to be active. Taking ourselves out of our comfort zone in small ways can lead to a sense of purpose and hope."       --Julia Cameron 

My pendulum can swing dramatically between exhaustion and stagnation, which often keeps me from finding that steady and focused energy that is so important to creativity and joy.  I am finding it more often, but I do find slippage into anxious fear.  Yet I have found ways to take my activity out of my comfort zone.  From leading colleagues in ways I never imagined, to speaking hard truths that in the past would leave me paralyzed and miserable. But I faced a lot this week and as I look at the tree in my back yard, standing strong through the wind, cold and other elements, I recognize the beauty and strength of nature. I at once envy and strive for that way of being.  The tree looks dormant and brittle, but not fragile.  It is waiting.  Just waiting for the right moment to once again reveal its beauty to me. 


The ancient masters were subtle, mysterious, profound, responsive.
The depth of their knowledge is unfathomable.
Because it is unfathomable,
All we can do is describe their appearance.
Watchful, like men crossing a winter stream.
Alert, like men aware of danger.
Courteous, like visiting guests.
Yielding, like ice about to melt.
Simple, like uncarved blocks of wood.
Hollow, like caves.
Opaque, like muddy pools.

Who can wait quietly while the mud settles?
Who can remain still until the moment of action?
Observers of the Tao do not seek fulfilment.
Not seeking fulfillment, they are not swayed by desire for change.  --Tao Teh Ching, Chapter 15

Reading the Tao Teh Ching this morning, this passage seemed appropriate to the spring swing of weather. Waiting, patiently for the me and the world to come to fruition.  Patience has never been easy for me.  I want to do.  I want it done.  I want to fix. I want it fixed.  But words like yielding and stillness seem to be resonating deeply for me right now.  Even as they scare me. The refrozen space at the bottom of my deck once again reminds me that the melting and freezing needs a few more rounds.  I need a bit more time.  I need patience.  I need to stay vibrantly alive in my stillness.  To do that. To stay vibrantly alive, I need to feel and I need to observe the spaces of discomfort that move in and out of my body and emotional life. 

Feeling Anger, Guilt, and Other Emotions

It has been way too long since I wrote an entry. Hence, the guilt, anger, and other emotions.  We're getting closer to the juncture, moving out of later winter and into spring.  I can feel the heaviness of water pulling me into the earth.  

I am struggling for a theme around which to write.  I suppose it could revolve around the lost three weeks and the nearing juncture.  It could also be about the busyness of work and the frenetic vibrations of the past several weeks.  The vata just taking over my ability to focus and sit still for any length of time. Now I'm struggling to pull myself out of the sand.  The tension between air and earth reaching its pinnacle. Right here. Right now. 

I found this picture and I think I want to focus on the feeling I had in that picture. The feeling of sinking into the soft sand. How comforting it was to feel the warm softness hold me. It was comforting until I tried to move.  I struggled to move my feet.  The harder I tried, the more the suction of the wet sand pulled me deeper into the earth. FIghting and reacting always makes things worse. 

It was lovely to just stand in the sand and not fight it.  I'm learning slowly.  I can see how reacting makes everything worse.  I need to not fight the tiredness.  I need to let myself feel that softness cradling me and stop worrying and wondering what it means to stay still for too long.  I need to remember that it is okay to stop and just feel what I'm feeling. And for the past week or so, I have been overwhelmed with anger, guilt, shame, and other challenging emotions. But I have also been feeling joy, love, excitement, and wonder. 

So for the weekend, I will sit in the silty sand and just feel.  Just feel what it's like to sit still. Feel the stillness without fear of it taking over my whole being.  Feel the quiet without fear of losing myself.  Feel the holding without fear of losing all that I have gained.  

I will keep staying in the stillness. And I will keep writing. And I will keep showing up. Even if I continue sinking into the sand.  Going deeper and deeper. 

The Journey of Curiosity

I had a dream nearly a week ago that a wise person in my life (who shall remain unnamed) told me to go back to my last blog post--that what I needed was in that blog.

I have had a challenging few weeks since that post and it has taken me almost a week to come back here and read it.  I think it was because I knew I needed the time to read the post and sit with it. I waited also because I wasn't entirely happy with the post and was a bit afraid to reread it.  I could anticipate wincing at the mistakes or silliness or whininess it might convey.  I couldn't remember for sure what I had written. What I was sure about is that it would leave me wincing at my foibles. But I sat here reading the post.  And I realized it is exactly what I have been needing and it is exactly what I've been struggling with over the last two weeks.  The fear of letting go. The fear of being vulnerable, really vulnerable.  Vulnerable in public. Vulnerable outside in the world. Vulnerable.  A word I wholeheartedly embrace and wholeheartedly fear.  Vulnerable. Keep writing it. Keep saying it.  Keep believing in its virtues. Vulnerable.  Be vulnerable.  Be brave and be vulnerable.

“The only reason we don't open our hearts and minds to other people is that they trigger confusion in us that we don't feel brave enough or sane enough to deal with. To the degree that we look clearly and compassionately at ourselves, we feel confident and fearless about looking into someone else's eyes.” 
― Pema Chödrön

Settling into late winter, I was expecting to be dragged down by kapha.  I was sure the heaviness would soon enter, but I keep waiting. And in that waiting and in my attempts to prevent kapha from entering, vata has been increasing and increasing. I could feel the vibrations of my body well above the ground. Anxiety--without mooring, fragmented, unkempt, unbounded.    

“A further sign of health is that we don't become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it's time to stop struggling and look directly at what's threatening us.” 
― Pema Chödrön, The Places that Scare You

I have come to this point where I'm tired of the anxiety. Tired of the fear taking over.  I need to embrace the journey of curiosity.  To find curiosity where there was fear.  Sitting with where there was running from.  Curiosity as a way to ease the struggle with looking directly at what scares so me.

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man's-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over again.” ― Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

“We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart.” 
― Pema Chödrön

Remembering that seems important right now.  Easing my anxiety will not be found in solutions to some current problem or tension.  I will find the ease in letting go and sitting with those tensions, understanding that I will fall apart and come together again and again and again. Me as exquisite kintsukoroi. Vulnerable. Be brave. Be vulnerable.  

“You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.” 
― Pema Chödrön

“There is a story of a woman running away from tigers. She runs and runs and the tigers are getting closer and closer. When she comes to the edge of a cliff, she sees some vines there, so she climbs down and holds on to the vines. Looking down, she sees that there are tigers below her as well. She then notices that a mouse is gnawing away at the vine to which she is clinging. She also sees a beautiful little bunch of strawberries close to her, growing out of a clump of grass. She looks up and she looks down. She looks at the mouse. Then she just takes a strawberry, puts it in her mouth, and enjoys it thoroughly. Tigers above, tigers below. This is actually the predicament that we are always in, in terms of our birth and death. Each moment is just what it is. It might be the only moment of our life; it might be the only strawberry we’ll ever eat. We could get depressed about it, or we could finally appreciate it and delight in the preciousness of every single moment of our life.” 
― Pema Chödrön, The Wisdom of No Escape: How to Love Yourself and Your World

Quest(ions) and Curiosities

This juncture has been filled with (quest)ions and I struggled throughout to resist my immediate desire to find answers/solutions and, instead, actually hold them and treat them as curiosities. This basically sums up my entire juncture. And it only just became clear to me as I typed them out now. 

But throughout and even a little before the official start of the juncture, I faced (quest)ion after (quest)ion. Each seemed to be trying to get me to stay with the tension. Not try to resolve it. To take that journey of curiosity.  Whether it was in my tight hip, holding and knotting, or in my meditation where I’d find myself hesitating right at the moment I could feel myself move deeper, or in my attempts to immediately resolve any anxiety I felt as challenges in my relationship arose, the place of holding repeatedly presented itself to me.  It has been subtle, but my reactions quite strong, as the (quest)ions kept hitting, something new kept coming to the surface.  And it has been coming in various forms—through my body, my unconsciousness, my emotions. 

As juncture ends today and I settle into the late winter, I do know that I will keep working here. It is as though the juncture stirred up dust and debris hidden in the crevices that I have been digging into. It is all unsettled and transitioning before my eyes into something I can’t sweep back into the cracks. The juncture helped me to see that work. To see what is to come.