Art has always been about hope for me. And purpose. And beauty. For without hope purpose and beauty, I don’t know what I would be waking up for.
I know I’m not alone in feeling strange about the contraction of the virus that has plagued us, one we’re starting to see in the rear view mirror of our lives. Because the expansion of it in other parts of the world is so lethal, it’s hard to not feel it. A loved ones mother in Nepal struggles to survive and I find myself wondering at the CDC’s relinquishing of safety protocols and what causes such dramatic ebb and flow of the virus. And wishing the violence in the world could just end somehow, and yet conflicts and explosions surge with mounting intensity. The virus does seem at times to be another form of humanity’s ills, and it’s hard to make a peace with all of this.
If you believe, as I do, that the virus is a symptom, as is war and violence, of a great imbalance, then a collective peering within certainly cannot hurt, and maybe if it plants seeds of thought or awareness, they can propagate into goodness. It may not reach those directing missiles or directly effect the mysterious origin of viruses, but it’s the only place I know to go to. To look at what has shifted. To reach for the artful rendering of watching the world and being a part of it, depicting it in tones and colors and poetic words.
What shifted the most for me since the pandemic is my relationship to fear. I tried to find a place for it in my body and it was greeted with unwelcome mats. So I grew new pathways for letting it go. Then I noticed the way I was shedding things I used to think were important, and found that what was left was more apt to fit into a higher perspective of what ultimately will be needed for the planet’s healing. I found that the energy of shamanic work can be remote and I’ve grown a new appreciation for its presence and the sensitivity of my own antenna. I’ve collected new visceral evidence of how energy permeates the air, despite distance and electronic transmissions. How intention can cause waves of healing. I am reacquainted with how love can be truly invincible and in fact rises above everything else, even, if not especially, death and grief.
I continue to seek power and purpose in writing and creating, excavating stories oozing out of wounds I thought long since healed, discovering new meanings for the onion layers of personal growth. I learned that writing songs for beloved causes or individual loved ones, still pierced my soul. Like sensorial paintbrushes in rhythm, usually in 4/4 time, aligned with my heartbeat.
I now see that the possibility of loving myself and my fellow humans can be enough to get me out of bed and dressed to work or create sacred space for myself and those drawn to what I have to offer. That in fact for the first time in my life my palette for living life feels so rich, that the sources of sustenance from artists, loved ones, and nature is capable of enabling me to thrive.
I now know that writing the book I’ve always dreamed of writing is in its final stages of production and it is rolling out from a deeper station within my heart than I ever thought possible. And that the scenery from the seat on the train is so beautiful. I feel as if my eyes have adapted to see the world in a new way, life as it expands and contracts with hope, purpose and beauty.