I had a hot-mess-mom moment this morning. Well, that's the whole year, but stay with me...
I was deep into writing a new book, I'm about 30 pages (60 paperback sized pages) in and it's wonderful. Fah-Low has returned. I have thanked the gods profusely. I think it's Mark Twain who used to say that he wrote every day but Sunday... he just didn't want to "lose that thread." It could be someone else and I don't have the exact reference, but I get the concept.
That thread, that invisible, magical tether to the creative realm, from which story flows, incessantly, like an IV drip... if you're lucky. And I am, for the moment.
So, there I was... mid-scene, and the battery was low on the ol' Macbook. I couldn't find the charger cable. Anywhere. Upstairs, downstairs. High, low, it was gone. I began to panic... then, I noticed the little plug-in rapid charger for my Canon Sureshot, with the battery inside, is also not where I left it. More panic.
I prayed to Mimi, my departed maternal Italian grandmother to go get St. Anthony for me, because that's what you do when things are missing and you grew up with old Italian ladies who thought chanting with necklaces could help you locate valuable items.
It might've worked though... because... I surrendered to my frenzy. I pushed everything off my plate. S l o w e d down. Made the bed (found the charger.) Tidied up the table and the room. (Found the camera battery.)
Thanks Mimi and St. Anthony.
And I was so delighted and laughing at myself... and saw the lesson in it. And I wanted to talk about it, so this just in... I am recording a new bunch of episodes for The Jelly, my podcast. I see the metrics, I appreciate you listening (still!) and I have more for you. Soon.
I forgot how much I like to hear myself talk. Made up with my SnoBall.
4 min read
by Stacie Hammond
A Modern Day Parable about the Magic of Communication and Relationship
"It's all happening!" She said, excitedly.
There was a woman, who - through some circumstance or other, came to live most of her days alone, on an island, in the Great Blue Sea. Sending out desperate messages in bottles about the state of the world as she imagined it - big issues, small issues, and everything in-between - in the wee small hours of the night, at the height of delirium and impending chaos and really having nowhere to be but at home. Under the moonlight, with a deafening silence and yet a heavy, forlorn, and chattering mind - a mind that wouldn't quit, devouring books, inventing and seeing potential futures and dreaming dreams that wouldn't stop - incessantly they streamed through her minds' eye... And she had only the glow of an iPhone in her hands as a true confidante - a portal - into other worlds.
Right there, at her fingertips - was the world. Anyone and anywhere and everywhere, at once - with a few words and few taps and bit of moxie and ton of faith, she sent her dreams and wishes and fears out into the void... and let go of it all...
A bit like a droid that could carry a message out into the unknown... hoping that it would reach a mentor, an aid, a teacher, a friend. Someone to take her seriously, someone to listen, someone, somewhere...
"Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope..." Star Wars: A New Hope
And then, some day, years later, she feels rested. She's well, now. At ease, with far fewer worries in her pockets. And far less chatter in her mind. Refocused. And she feels so much more like a person and so much less like a seamless and shimmering orb stuck inconveniently inside a slowly healing and quite dense body on an island in the middle of the sea.
And she finds herself having moved on - onto other simpler and far more prosaic things. Grounded things. Simple joys. Flowers. Gardens. Clouds and the shapes that they resemble. Horses and treetops in the wind. Safe harbors at twilight. Yoga poses and fresh fruit and drums and dancing. Oh, dancing. She'd forgotten about dancing and music and how it rooted her in. She wished there were someone to keep rhythm on the drum, while she danced, for she found that she could not do both at the same time. And what was dancing without music? Still, she danced to the music, within.
No longer privy to the wars and worries of her imagination, she lived her days in relative ease and simple gratefulness for what was already in front of her nose: a beautiful beach, songbirds, tropical fruit, waves and moonlight and sunshine and trees to climb. And a funny sort of creature that looked a bit like a giant gerbil, that she'd named Stanley. Stanley kept his distance, but was a good listener.
It was enough. And joy could be simple.
Until she looked up, one day, to see that long-lost and forgotten bottle of dreams and fears float back in with the waves. And she saw that the messages had been read - a bit dog-eared in the corners, at the parts that were re-read more than once. There were some notes in the margins. She wasn't entirely sure who'd read them, how could she be, but there were subtle fingerprints and whispers of scent and place and time that helped her to guess where the bottle had been in those years. And how strange for it to resurface...here and now. She'd let it all go, so long ago, in a great and grand surrender to the life that she'd been living. She'd found peace, already, she thought.
And then all in a moment, holding the small bottle in her hands, somehow, in a breath - she believed in everything again. And everything meant more than it ever had, and felt more powerful than it ever had, because now, she knew... that life could be a beautiful and wild adventure and that people really cared and that hope really did matter. And she knew that all those old and lingering fears, deep down in her subconscious, now - were being healed. And she wasn't alone anymore.
And it was a joy just to be alive in a world where people listen and respond and pay attention.
And she slept that night, in a hand-strung hammock, under a sea of stars. She slept very, very well.
And when she woke, she returned to the shore, again. And in the quiet, there, in the stillness of the easy tide - she saw more bottles. There were dozens, at least. She brought them in and stored them, all in a row, on the rocky sand - far enough from shore not to be washed out, again. And one by one, as the days went on, she began to read them. And to re-read the parts that she loved. And to leave her notes in the margins. And when she was ready, she'd throw them all back out to sea...and hope for an answer.
6 min read
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Charles Dickens' opening line in A Tale of Two Cities.
And isn't it just?
When I am able to pull myself away from the onslaught of rhetoric and political opinion and social justice warrioring and media-blitz campaigning.... and immerse into natural spaces and connect more deeply, within... I find my creative center. And it's wonderful and has become essential to my well-being.
But some days it's hard. With the world whirring around us, in such extremes, it can be hard to find a still space in the center to create. But that's exactly where the stillness is... in the eye of this storm.
The Left - while I love the more conscious conversations - is way too far left for my liking, and its statue-toppling and art censoring is starting to stink of Maoist China. :shivers: No thanks.
The Right - while I love our local police, and believe in empowering the individual and I do love tradition and nostalgia - is way too far right, and is starting to feel like a Military State run by an Administration that doesn't care about our well-being or choices, overall. Yes, this is a real virus. Yes, climate crisis is real. Please wear a mask. Please stop destroying natural spaces. And wash your hands.
We seem to be stuck in the middle, running all the way to edge to get information - here - and then having to run all the way back to the opposite edge, to absorb information - there. Constantly running across the proverbial spinning disc, hoping we don't just bottom out and collapse altogether wondering what the hell happened to us.
We seem to be collectively in Joseph Campbell's abyss. The dark tunnel. Awaiting our rise, after the fall. A rebirth, a renaissance, a reimagining into how we'll be here...after all of this.
I remember reading Travels with Charley, by Steinbeck, and noting his discontent with the politics in his day. A nation so fractured and divided... that the tension could be felt in living rooms across the country. Friends clashing, neighbors arguing, dinner table fights, political campaigns getting uglier and uglier. A nation torn apart by polar opposites and extreme ideologies - lacking a healthy and grounded middle.
We try people in the press, rather than in courts, it seems. We're confused about schooling and disease and human rights and social change vs. malicious destruction and distrust in the media, and on and on. Confusion abounds. And it's okay not to know where you stand, from day to day.
I used to proudly call myself a Democrat and now I'm not so sure. There's plenty to disagree with, lately.
I tiptoed into the land of the Conservative for a good few months, seeing the value in tradition and home and empowering individualism and so on. But there's plenty to disagree with, in our current Administration. And I can only breathe - and try to wrangle my thoughts - in the middle.
And I crave true leadership in that place. From that place. Right down the middle, a marriage of both sides. Yes, rebuild our country, our infrastructure hurts, small businesses need help, we need responsible border control but not kids in cages... but also, a woman has a right to choose and environmental protections are essential and intelligent and foreign policy and diplomacy matter. A lot. It's both, and our politicians only pander to one set of extremes, it seems.
Where has the middle gone? The media presents us with two extremes, and neither bring comfort, and so we get frustrated and go back to watching happy clips of cats and puppies kissing babies. We can't figure out how to vote here in the US, many of us, in a world that we can no longer relate to. Baby Boomers don't want change. Gen Z wants to torch the White House. And Gen X, in the middle, well - we're the Reagan-Bush kids. We're a bit precious.
And what do we all do about all of this, really? All at once? It's like someone shook the snow-globe and we're all just showing up, trying to be nice and do the right thing, and have no idea where our country is headed which is disconcerting.
And that sort of tension can paralyze creativity.
But, yet, somewhere, in the middle of the wreckage of human emotion and uprising and frustration and defensiveness and fear and chaos and grief and loss ... is a catalyst. A glowing spark, down at the bottom of this proverbial abyss.
Still shimmering. Waiting. For Next.
It's here...in the deep dark of the unknown, that we can craft anew. Make. Create. Build. From this primordial mess that we find ourselves in. Expression is key, and conversation essential, and there are many things happening:
- in education
- in social justice
- in climate protections
- in wellness spheres
- in mental health
- in technology and engineering
- in business
- in parenting
- in medicine
- in food policy
- in legislation
It's a hot mess. But most messes find a way forward...after the fires settle down. And we seek organization, and some new meaning, from the rubble.
A way forward after our trials - like:
"Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons..." and how she emerged unscathed from the temple fire...
...though she went a bit mad in the end, there, this was still a thrilling scene. And who doesn't want pet dragons to fly them around and do their bidding?
But, moving on - in all relationships, from micro to macro, after voicing and raging, comes a calm conversation and consideration. Reform and renewal. Cooperation and intention. Compromise...
This is what's missing from the conversation. It seems to be either all this way, or all that. A healthy body politic finds a middle, a compromise, a fulfilling of some, but maybe not all. Progress here, but not over there, not yet. A step forward here, but let's keep this in tact. For now. And so on. Anything worthwhile is a slow and steady unfolding. Not an overnight revolution and suppression of culture, even if well-intentioned. Life always seeks truth and homeostasis, it's true.
Balance. Compromise brings balance. A lil Column A, a lil Column B. You're just not going to be eating everything from one column. I'm sorry. You're not getting 14 chicken dishes and you're not getting all egg rolls and rice. Balance it out.
And youthful world-rockers, I get what your classes taught you, and even the books that you may have read that lit a fire within you - in all their glorious ideals and utopias and visions, but in reality, on the ground, there are real people - here - now, with real investments and lives and families and responsibilities. Utopias inspire us and can lead along a path toward a grander vision, but cannot be forced upon a society unready for it (this would defeat the whole point of being a free and inspired people.)
Change doesn't happen overnight. Lasting social change unfolds and evolves, generation by generation, over time. It's important to see how far we've come. And still work toward what we wish to see.
It's both, always.
But flying high above, in blissful quietude, in communion with Nature, in harmony, plunging into silence - there is perspective. Of all of this. And in that perspective, in that wrangling of raw emotion into channels of meaning - comes art. Chaos can be rich and fertile soil for new ideas, stories, inventions, music, healing, and more.
Get your hands in there:
1. Identify the conflict, within.
2. Visualize a solution to the conflict, a resolution.
3. Use the emotions around the conflict, channel them into a vision.
4. Create an idea or story or image of some aspect of that vision.
5. Trust your art to convey its message through this mess.
For more on alchemizing raw emotion and paradox into art, check out:
Memorial Day Paradox: Creativity and the War Machine.
by Stacie Hammond
4 -5 min read
"I'm chasing the Muse..." I used to say, with a smile.
My creative philosophy used to be to simply soak up life and ooze out art. I took it as it came, it washed in and out, as it pleased. So romantic and blissful and serendipitous... As if I were dependent upon inspiration, itself, as if it lived so far outside of me like a separate being, and I had to find myself in its path in order to let the art through. I've discovered that this is a bit silly.
Thinking this way got me stuck, a bit. Stagnated. I wasn't writing. I wasn't creating, not really. Nothing tangible, anyway. I was exploring, sure. Drinking in life, meditating, soul-searching, pondering, experiencing, pushing out my edges, absorbing and scintillating with essence and new energy. Yes, yes, all of that, and no regrets. But I haven't really been - in the flow - and writing, for a good, long time. I've been, you know, saying that I'm writing... which is code for "it's all in my head."
The truth is that I wasn't sitting down to fresh, clean pages. I wasn't putting myself in front of the screen, with the cursor blinking back at me, asking me what I had to say, what I saw, who I met, what I learned, and what it all felt like. It was all stuck inside. I took a few years and chased inspiration, freely, and filled tons of notebooks and journals, and even turned it into a book, Wild Horses and Mistakes, which has been unpublished for the time being. It may be back, it may not - there are all sorts of things to consider when writing nonfiction/memoir, and I am so-far self-published. Lots to learn and mistakes were made. Make-believe is make-believe; it's a bit more free and artistic and there are less rules.
But in the space that was cleared - by removing that current work from the proverbial shelf - the Muse began to chatter again. (New work-in-progress!) The world came alive in all its hardship and struggle and simple beauty and shimmering characters and hope and perseverance and story. Art. My mind switched back over into story-building mode, into poetry and wonder and curiosity and meaning, and way out of personal perfection-seeking mode.
And the cold, hard truth is - anyone can say that they're writing. But to sit down and produce fresh copy, or new pages, or increase your page or word count everyday... is something different. To fill in that white space. I've found that I need equal parts grit and bliss, in order to keep the momentum going:
When I have both of these in balance - hard work and free play - creativity flourishes. In recent years, I had been either ALL GRIT or ALL BLISS. And I've found that art works best in the in-between, dancing between both. Discipline and freedom, struggle and rest, hard work and play.
If you're a writer (or you want to be...) and you're struggling to fill in the pages these days, here are a few tips to get past that stickiness and get things moving again...
For more on Creative Blocks and Procrastination, see my podcast:
The Jelly: creative hustle for anxious minds
"My first ever podcast! Here, I talk about topics fresh in my mind: writer's block and procrastination. Both common for creatives. This is reality: I have laundry going, a few quiet moments, a Mac, a mic, and lots of real-life insight to share. Ways to unblock creativity, with real tips, why we procrastinate, and how to move forward and produce something real and tangible. Anxious people are often the most creative, if we can get out of our heads. I'm here to help you do that because I really do care. The world needs what you've got. Let's get creative..."