Rain’s soft spring fire is trilling down on my skin and where am I but everywhere that is bright and boundless and billowing. Everywhere that is here is presence I no longer remember how to be present for. But I am trying, and in my trying, I am creating something new. A new way of being present. A new way of engaging. And I feel more whole, more real, more honest than I have in many years. And life is a gift, and love is this ground I walk on, and time sustains me. Rips me apart and rearranges me. Time wanders me around in circles and gets me dizzy enough to forget what path I’m supposed to be trodding. I always forget what path I am supposed to be trodding. At times it seems impossible that you will ever, ever forget. You seem so sure in your footing. And then, one day you find yourself years deep into a pathless passing and you can hardly forget that there was ever a path to begin with. At the same time, I am more and more okay with not needing to accomplish any of the things I told myself I needed. Not in a lazy way, but in a contented, peaceful, older way. My artistry is in my existence. My creation has value simply in being created. If I’m not published, or in a gallery, or on Broadway, or in a movie…that is not where my artistry is. My artistry is what it is what it is and has value simply in existing. In working its way through me. This is not giving up, this is not a lack of ambition, because those things still thrill inside of me…but I have a larger peace to create, to give, to receive, to feel, to exist. To let my creations exist and let it be. And if it is seen, it is seen. But that is not where the artistry is. Maybe I’ll never “make it” because I can’t get behind the capitalist, results-driven, accomplishment-or-it-doesn’t-matter commodification of art and of artists. The soul-selling and the personhood selling and the pushing and shoving and hours in front of a screen. Maybe I won’t succeed at that at this point in my life. But what I will do is create. And breathe in creative breaths. And that can’t be taken from me. And that is a tiny revolution in itself. To create around the edges, in the corners, in the sideways yearnings. To be alright with yourself. To find accomplishment simply in existing in the most honest and present way you can. To raise a child. To give to children, to teach, to listen, to learn. To operate outside and to feed the earth with thanksgiving. And to know that your creation, your art, your existence exists outside of the codification of what can be defined as accomplishment. That life and the living and the experience of experiencing the love of this world is a stronger accomplishment than I can list on a resume. That creation matters in the minutiae, in the minutes, in the moments, in the everyday revolutions, in the tiny caverns and crevices. That measurement is futile, that the stars and the universe and the galaxies and the matter and the speed of light break our silly human measurements into a trillion spinning nonsenses. That we are silly for ever trying to measure our lives. Against one another, against nature, against the natural glory of being alive. That measuring will only take you so far, and that creating will take you anywhere.
So I’m doing alright, yes, thank you. I’m creating every day, yes, thank you. Yes, that’s enough for now. Yes, that’s the most I can do for now. Yes, I can find my way to being okay with that. For I am raising a child and a child is raising me. For I am working a job that I love and learning the ways into that creation. This is not a sidestop, this is my creation now. Informing my past, my present, my future, the ways in which I create. This is a puddle of inspiration I am learning from every day. This is my life right now. This is this moment right now and this is my creation. This is more to draw from than I could ever imagine. This is the living, this is the gift, this is the place where I am. And no, it doesn’t have to be a step in a series of other steps to take me to some larger, elevated place. This is the place right here. This is accomplishment in itself. There is no hierarchy of living, only illusion and unnecessary stress. And inside of this peace, there is life sitting right before me. There is creation drilling right through my fingertips. And there is inspiration gathering in a swarm around my skull. For right now, for my life, for my body, for my being, for my love is my creation.
I can always strive to do more, to be more, to breathe more, to create more, to flesh out more of myself, to shake out more of my strange rotten cells, to capture light inside my lungs and to curve my heart around the synapses of the world. But that peace, that inner contentedness with existing, with being alive, with what you have already created, with what you create every moment, with what you know is possible within your bones…that inner solidarity is far too often overlooked. What have you created? Your own fucking blindingly brilliant soul. And that affects the world far more than what you think you’re supposed to accomplish. Give, give, give. Love, love, love. And love creating yourself. And love giving of yourself to the strange creation you are always making. This life which wanders you down those strange, impenetrable journeys. Those wild, winding roads which splay out at the center, bulge out at the top, and set you free. Find the path, fuck the path, review the path, look at the path from afar, be alright with gazing at the path from a million miles away, find the path again, walk on it, run away from it, and float down the fucking river to wherever you will. You are your creation and you are enough. You are always enough. You are the path.
We are enough. We are always enough. We are the creation we are creating.
What do you want Art, if not to inspire growth? That deep, real growth that gives us life.
It’s in the letting go.