Creativity

I haven’t blogged in awhile because it seems everything is personal, and I don’t particularly want to get personal with cyber. Internal controversies they’re called in some circles. And although ‘those’ people meant something slightly different, I have got them big time. So, let’s try this. Remember the point of this blog is to practice writing, with the hope someone might see it and give me feedback. Hint hint.

Creativity is a gift and most of us are unaware we have it. Unaware as in unconscious. Yes, we walk the planet with our eyes closed, our ears shut; but mostly to drown out the deafening sound and sights of all the chatter. Chatter being media, internet, social online overload, TV, drama, Wal-Mart, traffic, business, sometimes family and friends even, and you get the drift. I like that word drift; float, saunter, ride, skim, become carried. And that’s what we do. Ok, that’s what I do. I become carried by what’s in front of me, thinking I’m paying attention, but not really. Becoming insensitive to the trauma of the world, because how do we survive in full awareness of what is really going on.

Yes, I know you’ve heard this all before. So my dilemma is to channel the internal strife caused either by internal or external forces (in most spiritual paths the external is actually decided by the internal. Ok, another subject for another day) and make art. Some creative energy period. Pen to paper. Finger to computer. Paint to brush. Eye to camera. Blueberries to pie. Seed to ground. Fingers to piano. And that’s just the beginning.

Now, I may not be able to do all these things well, but amazingly I have already done all of them! (Seriously, me on the piano is like science fiction). But becoming inventive and being ourselves in this inventive process is not about anybody else. It is about the expression of our dreams, our spirits, our internal nature. And since we are all unique in beautiful ways, what we have inside waiting to be expressed, counts.

So my friends, without divulging all the tiring tribulations of my insides I managed to write a little piece about hope. Hope for your dreams. Hope for the discovery of ways to dance through this life a bit lighter, taking in all that affects us, and generating some small creative piece of life that is you. And at the same time I gave myself hope for this.

Thank you.

4AM

Trying to write wanting to write can’t sleep so might as well. Making sense of it is not the prize just blah blah blah write to fill the time ease the soul keep from picking up someone else’s writing. Gosh, that’s so tempting. To read what’s already written, and so much of it. Could fill my days escaping into stories and pictures real and imagined. So many ways to take a trip without putting words to paper. But…….

What about my own creativity my own story, not my story story but a story. Although I suppose all writers have a bit of themselves, their heart their soul in the story they write. Yes? Maybe not. I’ve read some pretty crappy stuff.

Do you think our parents/ancestors leave psychic mush in our DNA, our neural net, the stuff that haunts us, that makes us wonder why we feel this way, act this way, think this way? What I mean to say, the things we can’t explain that don’t seem a part of us, but seem to have always been there? And not good stuff, let’s get clear about that. The dark parts, the sadness, the self-sabotaging thoughts, the complacency, the holding back on our dreams. Do you think some of that is ingrained by another life, another spirit?

There I go off in the ozone. I like it there. I want be to somewhere besides here in my own head.  Been reading about our souls, before life, during life, after life. Reminds me this isn’t all there is, thank god. I’m not sure what is “there” but that other dimension is captivating engaging comforting. So much of what I give power to, what I may think is important, just plain isn’t. Just useless sludge.

And I will stop here, because if I tell you what the only thing that matters is, I will sound trite and like so many of those sayings clichés spiritual wisdom coming out of my you-know-what.  The word, at least this morning, seems so over used and does not do its’ meaning justice. The meaning being grand, vast, empowering, blessed, heartfelt.

But, I do wish you much of it.

Bin Laden

Ok they got him

I’m chucking my Buddha in the back seat

Not just throwing him in the back

But covering him with a blanket

Want to feel good about someone getting shot in the head.

That Buddha is trying to creep out

With a little mindful smile on his face

Get back there you bald round man!

Teaching me about not harming

Not today

What about all those harmed Sept 11?

And around the world in the name of a god who doesn’t exist

What about the trauma some will never get over

A shot in the head seems a small price to pay

So it’s rationalizing

So one shot won’t stop future terror

So what

I’ll let the round man who smiles sweetly

Out when I’m good and ready

Probably tomorrow.

After seeing I AM (Documentary by Tom Shadyac)

It’s a lot of spacey mind stuff that makes sense

We are all connected

By our hearts, guess what

Our hearts talk to our brain

Not the other way around

Every thought of stress….or love

Makes a pattern in the universe

Grief is a type of love also

Its what opens our hearts

To let more love empathy compassion out into the World.

That is such a good thing

To know that empathetic principle or energy

Is the best part of us.

Gives me hope for us humans

The animals already have it down.

Consensus decisions already happen in the natural animal kingdom.

We humans seem to be lagging

If the tallest mountains in the world, and the oceans and air

And all that connect us, are enter-twined in shared energy

How can we help but to love all be all share all

Quit consuming all?

How can we be guilty of doing….nothing?

My 'Coffee' Table

My desk, well, actually my coffee table.

Why do they call it a ‘coffee’ table?

TV table, living room catch-all table maybe

But coffee?

Ok my desk-table in front of TV in the living room

(Why living room? Do I live here?)

Geez, Kim .  Just write quit questioning.

 With computer,  and sundry paperwork, let’s see, ten books.

Ten books? What the…..they’re only here because I think I’m reading all of them.

Some even at once.

Ok there’s more. Five candles. One of those angel/jesus tall ones in glass.
I like those. Burn forever.

One beautiful crystal. Tigerbalm. Some pictures in a pile.

Whatever you do don’t open an old box and pull out pictures that rip your heart open,

Because they end up on this table ripping you up for weeks.

Till you figure out where to put them, till in the future you find them again.

Sheesh....when they say our lives are a circle I get it.

Pen, remote, phone, calendar, little coasters (that must be for the ‘coffee’)

I like this little prose poem.

Is it a poem?

Well, it is my table I’m writing it on.

So I’ll call it whatever I want.

Bombs Fall

Bombs fall out of the sky
The sky, the same beautiful shade of blue
Men, their fear palatable as fresh cut pears
Running on human adrenaline
The ants in the dirt marching
It’s what ants do
Men surviving or not
What men do
The sky still a beautiful shade of blue

Armstrong Woods