I've Been Everywhere, Man, and I'm Still Here

I've been across the west side of this beautiful country, and I still feel very confused.  It's hard to explain the feeling inside me—the one that wants so much more (or so much different) than what I have but doesn't know exactly what that is.

I sit here in glorious Ashland, Oregon, wondering about what I want, still battling the urge to binge, still searching for mysterious signs, and trying to get in touch with my intuition.  I'm trying to listen.  I'm trying to do this thing. 

I want to go home, but I don't know where home is.  Houston doesn't feel like home anymore.  I plan to move out of the house where I'm living as soon as I return. The question is only where to go.  I am caught between the desire to write and create and the need to earn a solid income.  How solid does that income need to be?  Where will it come from? 

Even at the hardest times in my life, I've been okay.  I've been cared for.  I cherish the support I get from others, the love I feel all around me.  I cherish it and hold it dear, but all of these experiences are not reducing my level of anxiety and worry.

I changed the oil in my car today—or rather, I had some car experts do it for me.  I wish I could do a sort of oil change on myself.  I guess that's what people are looking for with detox regimens and colon cleanses, but this runs deeper than the physical. I need to change the way I see the world in some fundamental way. I need to make the pieces snap together in a way I know I cannot.  So I search.

I definitely feel like an eternal soul trapped in a mortal body, like I'm some sort of spirit that has come down to help this Michelle Cowan person make it in this world.  Sadly, the spirit part is kind of sick of doing the human thing. My spirit is stuck here, with this body at all times. I have to deal with hungers and tiredness and limited sensory capacity. I have to move linearly through time, deal with people, and adopt a limited perspective. How can I appease this restless spirit part of me?  How can I live a life in this body that satisfies my spirit?

I am, oddly, afraid that I'll wind up as a crazy homeless person or something.  I see myself as successful, peaceful, and happy, but this other, scary, deeply unsuccessful image comes to my mind, too.  It's strange. I know that I will be okay, but at the same time, I don't know if I'll be okay.  I don't even know where I want to live.  I feel like spacing out and being by myself for a while, which is what I'm doing at many points during this road trip.  Interestingly, my best moments on the journey have been with people, but I've loved the alone time, too.  I guess that means that despite my need to solitude, I need to ask for help.

Frankly, I need a job (or maybe multiple small jobs).  I have enough work to occupy me for now, but that's mostly because road tripping takes up the vast majority of my time. I will need more if I want to pay rent.  I want to go into a job at least three times a week, have friends, and live in a home I love.  I also want to do some of my work on my own time, according to my rules. That's just me and just some of the time. 

I hope that writing and music could add up to be enough, but I also need steady part-time work to give me a secure and steady salary.  What will I do, though?  What will I do that I won't absolutely hate? I feel very open, but I'm not sure what the opportunity will be. 

It occurs to me that the opportunity will come at the perfect time and that the time isn't here yet.  I wish it could get here soon.  I'm ready for it.

In an interesting sidenote, I finally have a pretty concrete idea for a novel. I'd like to bring that to fruition. I'd also like to record an album. Both projects move slowly, they are far from money makers. Perhaps I would be better served by leaving off the worry and just creating—create without financial worry.  It is possible?  Methinks yes.

The Beauty of Different

A year ago, I visited Bright Sky Press here in Houston and was immediately captivated by a particular book on display: The Beauty of Different by Karen Walrond. One glance at the cover, and I knew the book would be a wonderful experience. I didn't get a copy at the time, but a month or so ago, after loudly announcing how intrigued I had been by the cover and the title, I snagged a copy of my own. 

I wasn't disappointed. I love anything slightly off the beaten path and insist on finding the beauty in things most people sneer at. Someone has to buy the misshapen pears at the supermarket. Someone has to root for the villain, right?  Some might call me a contrarian, but after reading The Beauty of Different, I'd say I'm in good company. Walrond tells the stories of eight ordinary extraordinary people, weaving her own history into the mix with words and gorgeous photography.

I'm a sucker for beautiful books, so at one glance, I knew I would enjoy this one.  I felt like going out and conducting my own interviews after reading the stories of these people—their passions, their motivations, their heartbreaks, their unapologetic authenticity, and their creativity. Their stories don't make them seem like pristine, perfect people who I could never be like. They are unique human beings who put one foot in front of the other and make things happen outside the status quo. In short, they are the kind of people I want to be.

I'll freely admit that I liked the book largely because Walrond echoes my own world views on inclusiveness, spirituality, travel, authenticity, and life in general. It feels like a book I could have written, but my version would pale in comparison, devoid as it would be of Walrond's lovely photos. The imagery and her curious approach to lofty subject matter make every topic extremely accessible to any reader. I would recommend it to anyone, not just because her perspective resonates with me, but because her photography will captivate most everyone.

The book teems with insight and lovely phrases, but it certainly isn't the best writing I've ever read. Despite that, as a whole, physical book, it beats most bestsellers on the market today. This isn't a classic novel, after all.  It's a book from the heart, full of meaning and earnest sentiment.  Most of its effectiveness comes from the careful combination of words and photos. Even if you never actually read the book, you won't regret the moments you spend luxuriating in Walrond's stunning images and colors. The book is a complete, satisfying package.   

I feel like I found a friend in Karen Walrond, like I want to meet her friends and encourage her as she continues to pursue a creative life of writing and photography—a second life for her after a decade as an attorney. I sit here, a writer and musician who has only recently chosen to leap from full-time corporate to full-time creative, and from this place, I'd characterize my reaction to the book as jealousy.  Yes, definitely jealousy.  I wouldn't take anything Walrond has away from her, but I certainly would like a taste of it. Things to come… methinks. 

As all good books should, The Beauty of Different makes me want to live life a little differently, visit new places, meet new people, and create new art. It's inspiring.  If you need some color in your life right now, pick up a copy. You can find it at Bright Sky Press and at Amazon. And don't miss Walrond's treasure of a website, http://chookooloonks.com. How can you not fall in love with a name like that?

Our Little Worlds

Today, I listened to a story on This American Life about a woman who hd collected dozens of books over the years, all inscribed with dedications from loved ones. However, every dedication had been written in her own hand… and most were addressed from relatives who were no longer living at the time of the supposed signing. A mixture of thoughts came up about this. Certainly, a certain sadness surrounds her actions, but a hopefulness, too. Instead of pity or puzzlement, I primarily felt amazement at her creativity.

Personally, this sounds like something I would do. Why not imagine that people I once knew cared enough about me to give me books I truly would enjoy? Thinking of what they might say, what I’d want them to say, and the difference between the two would be very revealing. It is very revealing—an unanswerable quandary worth examining.

A second story concerned a woman who periodically quits whatever job she has in order to take care of her children, who she raises by herself. Sometimes, when she needs to return to work again, it takes months to find employment. She built a whole strategy behind looking for work, including how long to wait before she stops being picky and takes whatever job becomes available (60 days).

Do many people do this: quit jobs without having another one in their back pocket? It seems like an incredible feat to me, even though I realize that people do it all the time. It makes me wonder if I should quit my job, thereby pushing myself into a position where I have to make music, write, and be creative in other ways to make ends meet. Pushed myself into that corner strikes me as something romantic and exciting. I hope the creative juices would be forced out, and my energies could be channeled into areas I never considered before.

I have considered the quitting and blazing a new trail option many times. Just quit, I tell myself, and see what happens. I’ll have to pay the rent, so I will pay the rent. I’ll need to make money. But how? A way would emerge.

Will I one day be brave enough to step out on that ledge? Could I cope with a life without as much security as I have now? Part of me doubts it—mostly because I’ve proved how insane (for lack of a better word) I tend to become without external structures. It gets very difficult for me to live outside any set boundary or even to adhere a framework of my own creation.

Or am I not trusting in how much I’ve grown and my own abilities? What if I fully trusted myself? Do you fully trust yourself to live without a paycheck or a job to go to most days of the week? Many of you live that way. How do you feel about it? Where do your structures come from? Do you need any?

I have no idea how healthy my current thoughts and propensities in this area really are. One day, I will back myself into a corner if that’s what I want. But I’d rather find innovative ways to start shining right now, in the midst of my cushy bimonthly-paycheck-inclusive life.

But so much potential exists—in me and in every individual. How can we find the circumstances under which we will flourish and grow? Can we find the courage to look? Or will they come on their own? Is it about trying anything and everything? Is it about removing expectations and figuring out how to “show up” for life? What happens if we don’t “show up”?

Is the act of writing a dedication to yourself of the same value as a book inscribed with someone else’s writing? Is working creatively within the bounds you currently have equally important as reaching beyond boundaries and finding new places to thrive? I can only pray for avenues of expansion to appear and for me to have the motivation and bravery to walk down them. I pray the same for you.

What Has Value?

I have been out blowing and going, brewing and doing, rambling and racing. Now, it’s time for rest. Once again, I ask, “What nourishes me?” Today, that is sitting at the piano, relaxing into the music. No need for tangible results.

I tend to be so tied to doing things that can be measured or that result in a physical product. I am inclined to clean my bathroom or finish a home improvement project before I sit down to write, play, read, or think. In the midst of my errand running, with the satisfaction of a checked-off to-do list, I can miss the extreme value writing, playing, reading, and thinking hold. Even if I do not complete a song or an article, the time spent thinking and pondering IS worthwhile. People just can’t see it, and I tend to like things that I think will win me favor with people.

Over the years, however, I have learned that I can FEEL the value of abstract activity. My family never really valued intangibles; therefore, I became highly achievement-oriented, filling my life with goals like cross country race times, grades, levels of extracurricular involvement, and eventually numbers on a scale or calories eaten in a day. I am beginning to see that striving toward such targets may offer far fewer benefits than enjoying less concrete activities.

My brain needs imagination time to function properly and come up with new ideas when I eventually get to work or encounter a difficult project. Imagining during my free time prepares my mind for creative thinking in a product-driven environment. On my own, I can think and play without creating an end product.

When deciding not to work on another item on my task list, it can be very difficult to shirk old beliefs that shout, “Why are you sitting around doing this? Why are you walking around aimlessly at night or lying in the middle of the living room floor? Why are you not finishing up that song or cleaning the bookshelves or preparing lunch for tomorrow? What you’re doing now matters to NO ONE!”

“Well,” I reply, “this matters to me. And because I allow myself the freedom to spend time without goals, products, or measures, I feel less hemmed in by all the things in my life that require me to meet expectations and quotas. Participating in activities without goals enhances my positive emotions and creative ideas—a priceless result. I feel invigorated, rather than drained, by these pursuits. The fact that I am doing this now will matter to someone, someday. And even if that person is only me, that is enough.”

The value system for activity that I have in place is pretty hard-wired from childhood. But by experimenting with letting myself go and doing things that seemingly have no point, I can see if life gets better or worse when I shift my focus and priorities.

We can all afford to take a look at our fundamental beliefs. Are there things you believe and don’t know why? Examine those. Then, do something contrary to the belief. Does your belief still seem founded in truth?

As for me, I’m off to the piano. Maybe a song will come out of this. Maybe not. Maybe all that really matters is that I make music.

Uncovering the Color

I just want to add one more thing about painting today.

At one point during the painting process, I covered everything in black. This was a heartbreaker at first. I’d spent so much time on the color work and decided to cover it up. It seemed so morbid and wrong.

But as I painted on the black, I recognized a persistence of color. I took my fingers and scratched at the canvas. The colors reappeared in all their vibrance, peeking through the dark overlay. It looked fantastic. I couldn’t believe it. Even the black itself wasn’t really black. It was a glossy, purpley mix of everything underneath.

That final creation—vibrant color peeking through black and gray, embodies much of what I’m about. I believe in the power of darkness to drive us to new heights of life and light. I believe that we each hold massive amounts of color and joy within us, but it must be uncovered. Life is not only growing and adding and finding new color. It is revealing the color that already exists within us, and that color is part of the darkness. Black is actually EVERY color combined. It’s not an empty thing. It holds everything. It holds all possibility.

Also, about covering up the color: Is the color worthless if no one sees it? Or does it create form and texture that the painting would lack without it? The artist wouldn’t have gotten to the final purple-black finish without all the color beforehand.

I understand Rothko’s chapel paintings a little more now. Endless color rests beneath the dark finish. And even though I’m curious and wish he’d unleashed the color to the world, at least I know that the color exists.

With Rothko, though, I wonder if he got to the point where he couldn’t see beyond the mass of color that turned to black. He couldn’t separate all the color he saw into different pieces. I wonder if, in a way, he might have been trapped inside the mix of color. He couldn’t make sense of it and so felt he had to leave us (committing suicide).

It isn’t bad to feel confused or dominated or overwhelmed by the colors and thoughts and ideas of the world and within ourselves, but it does make it more difficult to cope with life. That is the curse of the artist: a million ideas. What do we do with them? And when we do something with them, the onlookers tend to critique them to death.

What’s more, the thing we as artists create rarely if never fully expresses the idea within. Artists who can accept this and the reinterpretation of their own ideas by others thrive. Those who obsess over getting across EVERY nuance or who feel shot down when their ideas are interpreted in an unsatisfactory way have a much more difficult time.

I want to accept my thoughts and the thoughts of others. I’d like to have a conversation with uncomfortable ideas instead of immediately shoving them away. I want to recognize that everything holds color. It all shines, even the darkness.

Curiosity is key. I want to investigate what might live under the surface of things. I want to scratch away the black until I see that the black has a purpose, too.

Coloring through the Fear

I finally painted today! I attended a process painting class, used paint, explored, and didn’t have to withstand any critiques. It was all about letting my own creativity out, taking note of my resistances, and seeing what happened when I ignored the resistance and followed my heart.

I started out painting with whatever colors I felt like using. Every couple of minutes, I would see my painting and love it but also want to continue painting. I felt sure that if I kept on adding paint and color, I would ruin my creation. I noticed this resistance, and instead of moving on to a new piece of paper, I followed my intuition and put the next color exactly where I wanted to, just to see what might happen.

What was the worst that could happen? Giant fears of ruining my perfect picture arose within me. Did I really think that ruining a painting would ruin my life? My fear made no sense, and I immediately related it to how I think about decisions in my daily life. I can exhibit such catastrophic thinking. Every choice seems like life or death. My painting process reflected that.

In the studio, however, I transcended the fear and never changed my canvas. The miraculous thing was that every time I continued painting, despite worries that my work was at its most beautiful and would be marred by another brush stroke, the painting got better. Once I made another mark or muddled my “perfect” creation, a new technique or idea opened up that made something else even more shockingly beautiful. By getting to a new stage with the painting instead of repeating the start of another one, I discovered techniques I never would have considered and learned more about color combinations and paint texture. That information remained hidden and unavailable when I stayed in the safe spot and stopped before I “ruined” anything.

It felt good to break through and do the challenging thing. And it felt odd to have been so wrong. Continuing to paint didn’t ruin anything—it opened me up to more.

And that’s what I want to do in life. I want to go beyond safety to a place where miracles and true learning occur. I want to remember that I can’t make a mistake and that resistance is worth examining.