this is part of a multi-part series on discernment. what are my ways of discerning what some traditions would call “god’s will” and what others might call in alignment with highest good for me or what deepak chopra calls communication from our nonlocal intelligence? i will use the terms “god’s will,” “highest good” “nonlocal communication” interchangeably throughout the series so look alive. click through the first post (how do i discern what is alignment with my highest good and why might i want to? ) to see what lies ahead or what i’ve already brought forth.
this is a story of how i accessed an aspect of my own divine wisdom by doing something that i couldn’t do. many others have explored the connection between creativity and divine connection. julia cameron’s marvelous book and series the artist’s way provides a whole curriculum to do so.
many years ago when our children were very small my neighbor mego johnson (now gunderson) invited me to take a no accidents, no mistakes painting class, with yoga on the side. desperate as a young mommy was for some me time, i heard “weekend,” “yoga,” and an inexpensive price and i was sold. this would be first time away from the kids without my husband. the lure of time to myself drowned out the voices in my head that screamed, “but you hate painting.”
and i did. hate painting, that is. and drawing, and collages, and basically any art you might do in elementary school. in second grade i had a teacher who put everyone else’s art up on the wall. mine she threw in the waste basket saying it was “not ready.” i came home every day with a stomach aches. in third grade my parents pulled me out of that school and put me in something called the exploring family school (but i digress).
i got to the small lake county retreat center on a friday afternoon and settled in. it was fabulous to walk the grounds without a child asking me questions. i even had time for a nap in the tiny shabby wonderful cabin i was assigned—deliriously happy. then its yoga before dinner, and a decent vegetarian meal (cooked and cleaned by someone else, i mean, come on, what could be better?).
then the painting part began. in a small room the five of us gathered as mego laid out the deal. we each got a section of the wall, a stack of flimsy white paper and some paintbrushes. in the middle of the room was something called “tempera” which up until that point in time i would have told you were japanese deep-fried items (it turns out that’s “tempura”). tempera, in contrast, is a quick-drying paint that allows you to easily cover up other paint. this was essential, it was explained, because we were to allow ourselves free range of expression. the rules were these:
- there were no accidents and no mistakes.
- this was a judgment-free zone.
- we could not crumple up our paper and throw it away.
- but we could paint over anything we didn’t like and we could add on papers to the side of our painting to make it bigger.
the other three, having absorbed the rules, immediately fell to work. madly painting within minutes, they appeared fully absorbed in their experience. i, on the other hand, froze. i basically left my body. “what the every-loving fuck had i gotten myself into?”
it turned out that the other three other students at the tiny retreat were all actual professional artists. this is what they live for. this is what they do. they were just here to free themselves and their creativity even more by working in a new medium without trying to produce something they could sell.
knowledge of this did not help me. it terrified me. since my second grade art deemed unworthy of the wall with other second graders, how on earth could i begin to place even a brushstroke in the room with this august bunch? utterly impossible.
i stared at the blank canvass all evening filled with self-judgment and regret for having chosen this as my mommy time. i went to bed around 9pm not having painted so much as a dot. the rest of them were adrenalized saying, “who wants tea?” and seemed to be ready to go all night.
early saturday yoga followed by a nice breakfast helped before the inevitable morning of self-loathing and boredom to come. lunch, a nap and a walk were divine. strong consideration of skipping the rest of the “painting” sessions was under serious advisement. yet there was part of me, a very small part, that wondered, “what has led me here? is there something about this fear of painting that i need to face?”
yoga and dinner postponed the hell ahead. i tried & largely failed to bond with my fellow students. our worlds were so different. what did i have to contribute? after dinner hours of despair in front of the wall began. the others had added so many sheets to the sides of their “canvass” that they began to encroach on my allotted space. didn’t it make sense for me to simply yield it to them? why did i need to hold on to such valuable real estate? i just sat there thinking, “i can’t paint. i hate to paint. but i’m supposed to paint. what the fuck can i paint?”
at some point in the evening, probably about 9pm, a thought occurred to me, i was no stranger to creativity. hand me a piece of paper, put me in a room with a group of people and a tough problem, even one i had no experience or expertise in, i would come up with something. i had no shortage of ideas. my mind was constantly at work. very few things daunted me. other forms of art even were doable for me. wasn’t writing an art? i’m not a great singer, but i love singing and i love to make up words to songs. i’m a weak musician, but i can come up with tunes. i’m an actor. i dabbled in improvisational comedy. all of this was easy for me, even compared with other people.
i began to wonder, where did all those ideas come from? was there a part of me that knew how to make up words and music and ideas? did that part of me perhaps know how to paint? was it, perhaps a false idea that i did not know how to paint or “do” art?”
almost as soon as the thoughts occurred, i challenged that part of myself, “okay, if you’re so talented, tell me what to paint. i have no idea what to paint. i don’t know how to paint. do it for me. tell me what to do and i’ll do it.”
immediately, my thoughts began to direct me, “take the brush, dip in blue and paint here. take the brush, dip it in green and paint here.” i did as i was told and wonder of wonders images began to emerge on the sheet. a tree came out and its roots connected to all existence. it turned out i needed my real estate after al as i added several other sheets to allow its branches to dissolve upward into two huge fish kissing. the painting was beautiful to me; it was amazing to experience this flow through me. i became possessed with it.
now it was my turn to stay up late in the night painting and needing tea. i got the sense my fellow students were delighted to see me join the club, but i was not at all focused on what anybody else was doing. the next day i continue all day until i finished it. i had created something marvelous and beautiful to me. it was a great joy.
when i returned home, i snuck off the next day to see if i could get the “painting” (a bunch of papers) framed. the women at the frame shop pronounced the art “very raw.” i didn’t care. the endeavor turned out to involve them building a plexiglass case for it at the cost of $1,000. i didn’t exactly run the expenditure past my husband. i just knew i needed it preserved and on my wall.
we hung it in the stairwell, the only wall high enough to display it. that was another cost. a few weeks later, our four year old daughter had this to say, “mommy, your painting is changing the whole family.”
“how is that?” i asked her.
“because you couldn’t paint. but you made a painting. that tells all of us that we can do what we cannot do.”
