ditch your phone

and look out the window

I gazed out the kitchen window as I waited for my fried eggs to cook. It’s been raining continuously for a couple days, creating puddles filled with cherry blossom petals, like a toddler’s pretend stew. I noticed that the neighbor’s rhododendron bush is on the verge of blooming, one or two of the big buds expanding just enough to peek at the pale petals inside. I love the color of this particular bush- the flowers are white with just a hint of lavender. I’m taking a week off of social media, or I might have been tempted to check Instagram while my eggs sizzled beneath the frying pan lid. I had a moment of gratitude, that I could be present enough right then to notice the rhododendrons and feel the anticipation of their arrival.

I’ve been in a creative crisis that feels on the verge of existential, because to me the two are linked. If I don’t feel fulfilled in what I’m creating, life feels hollow. I find myself wondering, what is the point of everything?? of anything??? Even though I know that really isn’t the right question. I’ve been feeling distant, not emotionally involved, lacking curiosity. There are plenty of creative things I like to do, and when I’m in the middle of doing those things I feel fulfilled; but afterwards I’m left with something to deal with, find a place for. In the past I’ve enjoyed sharing those things online, but then I get caught up in wanting feedback, compliments, validation.

I remember when I was a teenager, in my room in the suburbia of Southern California, writing and collaging and drawing, playing songs on my electric guitar. Most of the things I made in that room were never shared. I had pen pals in other cities, many of whom I would never meet, and I would write them long letters and send collages and mix tapes. Just having one person to send something to felt like enough to justify hours of creating. Or even having no one to send something to- just the act of creation made me feel alive and real, and helped me understand who I was. I’m trying to tap back into that feeling. I didn’t need a reason other than, I do it because that’s who I am. I don’t know who I would be without it.

Social media, the news, the constant accessibility of information through my phone is adding to my creative crisis. It often is a source of inspiration, when I see and read and listen to what other people are making; it can be calming, enlightening, reassuring. But overall what it’s doing is making me feel small, overstimulated, and unreal, like I’m just a floating consciousness. I want to be in my body. I want to be in the place where I exist, physically. I want to be face to face with a real person in a real space.

I’m being reminded constantly of the atrocities being committed against people, animals, and the earth. I’ve lost a sense of hope for the future. I remember when there used to be an excitement about progress and technological advancements- now what I feel and see in people around me is dread, fear, anger. There’s a sense that we’ve gone too far, we are losing what makes us human. What’s the antidote? Community, always. But community, for many of us, feels unattainable. In my case, there have been many roadblocks to building a solid community- sometimes it’s as simple as a schedule conflict. I work weekends, when many community events that I would love to attend are scheduled. I have a social job which means I need a lot of time alone on my weekend. We are all busy and it’s hard to make time to connect.

I tried out a writing group recently that I found on MeetUp. I went to two meetings then stopped, as I realized it wasn’t the right kind of group. It was a group where people meet up, then quietly work on their own writing, then leave. I want a group where we write together on the same prompt and share what we’ve written after. During Covid I started a group like this with some old friends through Zoom, and it was something we all deeply needed during that time. A lot of the writing I did with that group ended up in my self published book of poems and stories, and it was also the catalyst that started the process of writing my memoir. But I need to make connections here, in the city where I live. I need to meet with people in person. I’m on the verge of starting my own writing group here.

I had a session with a psychic recently, someone who was referred to me by my mom. I talked with him once before, back when I was considering the move from Rudy’s to Demeanor, and I got a lot out of it. This time I felt like a lot of what he told me wasn’t resonating, especially when I asked him about my creative life. He told me I need to work BIG and very visible, like a mural. He described the mural in detail, saying it had lots of color and depth, with 3D parts of it extending out past the wall like a relief painting. It was going to cause a nationwide stir, even ending up on the front page of the newspaper. It would state my cause on it, a political statement. “I see waves, and hair,” he said, which I thought was interesting because I’ve never told him what I do for work. While he talked I thought about how unappealing that all sounded, I hate the thought of working so big, with such a direct political statement across it, how public and visible it was. “No thanks,” I thought.

But then a funny thing happened the next day. I was painting, trying out this new big brush that I got. I loved dipping it in ink and blue gouache and creating these big curvy shapes. I started small and then had to move to bigger paper, and I even had the thought “I wish I had even bigger paper, like wall sized.” It suddenly seemed ridiculous to ever paint small, with tiny little brushes. Big felt like the only way. And then look, it became waves, and even hair.