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For some time now, I’ve had an internal running joke that I’ve occasionally externalized. It goes something like “If I’m ever to enter into any sort of relationship again, someone will just have to fall from the sky, start fixing shit, and then go (the fuck) away.”
In other news, my muse has disappeared into the mountains for an undetermined amount of time. While I never specified the kind of relationship, it ultimately and hilariously satisfies the parameters of my request, and his absence has an edge that deepens my gratitude for solitude. It’s nice to miss someone’s presence, yet still feel content. I’m surprised to find my nervous system looking forward to hearing stories of his adventures when he returns instead of inventing a million stories of its own about his absence.
One thing that has been grounding me is my daily ritual. A couple years ago, I started a practice of spending the last hour of my night among my art supplies. No screens (unless I need a reference image) but access to all of the art supplies I have been hoarding. Getting started was pretty simple. I have a planner that I use to summarize every day with a few sentences, and that was the bare minimum I needed to accomplish in that time. A couple of weeks in, I tried using Lynda Barry’s Syllabus as a sort of “prompt” to get me started, and I threw a temper tantrum over the sheer amount of ridiculous rules in that book and quit the practice for like a month (sorry, Lynda! You are wonderful, but you’re waaaaay to ruly for me!) (Like, srsly, I don’t even talk to one person in a given WEEK, how’m I supposed to write about several interactions in a DAY?)
I eventually came back to it with Zentangles, and that really helped. Zentangles are simple enough to fall back on when there is nothing else on my mind, meditative enough to hold my focus for an hour at a time, and cool looking enough to make me feel like I’ve spent my time making something worthwhile. Plus, Zentangles have the added bonus of being something I can do while talking to customers during my workday.
After zentangling for a bit, I started experimenting with different media. I have always been a chalk pastel person, but I invested in a nice set of oil pastels and played with blending them. I also tried working with things like acrylic paint pens, and watercolor pens. They are both so gratifyingly buttery on the page, and allow for layering when fully dry so they can be mixed and matched with other media.
Another thing I have done to make sure I’m getting my hands dirty on a daily basis is make little portable file boxes with art supplies in them that I can lug out onto the porch or deck or even off into the forest if I’d like.
This year, in mid-spring I devised this ritual:
I enter the space where I’ll be performing the ritual. Usually I create a playlist or at least choose an artist or theme of music. If I’m outside, I might choose to listen to the birds, instead. But there is almost always music.
I light a candle or incense, and take some time to sit with my feelings and the events of the day. The events may be in my own life, but usually this is the time I take to process what is typically horrible news from around the world, the country, my town. If I need to use the internet during this time to reflect, that’s cool. I try to take screenshots throughout the day of things I need to reflect on and process, but I also don’t want to take up too much time with this part of the ritual, and there is so much bad new these days. I admit sometimes I just can’t feel it all. However, it’s at this point that I usually have a good cry. I don’t know about y’all, but I cry several times a day these days. However, it’s nice to have a space and time to let it all out.
Once I’m done with that, I’ll move into reading. I usually have at least one book I’m reading, along with a zine or comic book, and a few different poetry/philosophy/inspirational essay books. Right now, I’m reading The Assassination of Fred Hampton by Jeffrey Haas, a book of poetry by Wendell Berry, the Tao te Ching, and some books on pagan holidays. I’m between zines right now, but I was reading some issues of an old zine by a friend of mine in Austin that I probably would not have been friends with if I had read his zine today. hahaha.
After that, I choose my medium and sit with whatever it is I need to sit with and make something. Sometimes it will be a little poem, or just a recollection about my day in my journal. Sometimes it’s art; a drawing of something I saw or am looking at, word art about a song I’m listening to, something in the news. Sometimes I listen to the news and just write random words in various places on the page, overwriting and overlapping and underlapping and twisting and turning with different media and various colors until almost the whole page is just a blur of random pen strokes.
Sometimes, I’ll do multiple things. Occasionally, I’ll leave something unfinished, or finish something I previously began. Often when I’m done I’ll take pictures of whatever I’ve created. If there’s a good groove jamming, I might finish with a little dance. Then I tidy everything back up, blow out the candle, turn off of the music, and close the ritual. Usually afterwards I share something I’ve made with someone I love.
I often talk about how I love that winter in Maine is like an annual reset. The slate of the outdoor space is wiped clean for whatever spring brings. Having a daily ritual that involves space to grieve, reflect, celebrate, and share is sort of like winter in Maine. Look at that! I create the seasons!
And that, my friends, is how I am nourishing my soul during these times. Fuck the dishes! Make art, instead.
How are you getting through it all?
Musical interlude: Tame Impala – Solitude is Bliss https://youtu.be/-F2e9fmYL7Y?si=xPG7FIPBUOBzLl6O
I had their addresses memorized. Or, at least, their zip codes. I still think about them when I hear people say they are from some obscure town that someone I once knew hailed from. Midland, Michigan. Appleton, Wisconsin. Yellow River, Ohio. Fair Oaks, California. I would grow to love the way they shaped their letters and the pattern of punctuation the way most would love a face or a particular accent.
