Right on Schedule...

I am about to reveal the writer’s deepest non-secret, their most obvious, over developed and ugliest talent: procrastination. Sometimes its the idea of the hard road ahead, the sweat and tears WORK of it all that gets me off the page or screen and onto the couch or yoga mat or street or phone or internet. Sometimes its the tenderness, the fear of failing, of writing something “bad” or revealing too much or having an idea so ready to bloom but without the skills yet to articulate it that pushes me to do anything but hit the keys. Today I have a very specific task ahead of me, and very localized angst and fear and discomfort at the sheer thought of facing up to it.

I used to worry that I didn’t have the self motivation or “get up and go” to be an artist at the helm of their own creative endeavours. But time and again I have watched myself, marveled at myself and the energy that rises up from a seemingly infinite source and propels me up out of bed at the crack of dawn to be on a set or run around the city hitting auditions with three outfits in my purse only to get back at work by 5 to put in enough hours to pay the rent or even staying up until 3 in the morning after a double show day writing just to feel and see and explore. I know I have everything I need... and also a bunch of stuff I do NOT need... to stumble ever further down the rabbit hole of this journey towards that holy land of manifestation. So I try not to judge the tired, the weary, the frightened, the feelings of being monumentally UN-special, and chalk it all up to humanness with trust that it will come out when it wants to and like all the times before when I’ve really actually wanted something I will find the guts and the hot sticky desire to make it happen.

But... I don’t just want to write for self-exploration and catharsis. Here’s another secret: I want to be a writer. For an audience. I want to conquer these blocks and aversions to just DOING IT so that I can write articles and books and plays and poems and make it part of my WORK. And when you are, when I am, writing for work, for something outside ones self... it has to be a labour of love and devotion and stubborn bull headed often awkward forcing out. Sometimes it will flow making sense of itself as it reveals what it means to word after word. And sometimes it will eeek out like nails on the chalkboard of your mind. Oh god. I want to throw up.

I have to read the first draft of my first play today. I don’t want to. I want to pretend I never wrote it. But I know in my heart that not only can I absolutely not abandon this little creature... I have to learn to love the warts and folds of fat and finally accept that I gave birth to this totally imperfect being. And then after cradling it in my arms and feeding it from my own body I will trim its gnarly mane (that it most certainly inherited from its mother), take it out of its potato sack dress, pick out some party shoes and maybe frilly socks (too much?) and then set it free to roam the creative kingdom and fend for itself warts and all.

I want my work to be accessible, inclusive. I most certainly write from myself, a personalised voice that I will never apologize for or try to change, but at present my play is a philosophical play about philosophical things. And that’s all well and good and will remain the case even after the 4th draft, but I want it to stimulate and entertain and not just be a selfish vomiting of my existential escapades. It is so hard to make that switch, to stay rooted in truth and authenticity but be writing for the market place, writing something with the intention that it will someday be shared, interpreted and (ouch!) probably judged. This blog has been my bridge to the outside world. I have been writing faithfully for the last six-seven years: poetry, ideas, journal entries, stream of conscious gibberish, mini articles, scrapings of dialogue, but it was always for ME... And here I write knowing I will most likely post this and even when it gets super intellectually wanky or all about my personal feelings I can justify it by saying: I never ask anyone to read it. I don’t publicize this blog or tell people its “good”, if you find it by accident and choose to read on: cool. If you are one of the handful of friends or family I have invited to check it out then, well, you know me and I’m willing to bet that none of these often nonsensical ponderings really come as any surprise. If you’ve read this far and you hate it... well that’s your own fault!

But my play... and all the other plays that are starting to stir in my belly... I want to be proud of them, I want to hand out flyers on the street, I want to advertise them and ask people to act in them, I want to ask people for money at the door and re-coup my costs. So... it needs to be worth someone’s time. And oh god... what if its sooooo not!? I still won’t let my parents see some of the film projects I’ve been in because I’m afraid they’ll ask me for that 5, 10, or 80 minutes of their life back. But bad movies, bad plays, bad business ventures get made, get supported, get invested in all the time (please immediately click on these links: Hawaii Chair and then Patton Oswald “Death Bed”... TOTALLY worth 5 mins of your life and illustrates this point with much more hilarity than I can). So why not this? Why not MY idea?

The answer: Well Laura... because it isn’t done yet. Its in first draft form, it is a fetus. It is totally unready to be bought, sold, have the hands of strangers upon it. And if you don’t love it enough to stare it in the face and love it and accept it and put YOUR time into it well then why should anyone else? Oh god... wisdom... you are so annoying sometimes... I was just here writing about the fear of writing... procrastinating to the HIGHEST degree (the fact that I have now written over 1,000 words about why I’m afraid to start this, to start to finish this... well that kids, is the definition of creative procrastination.

So here I go... I am diving in... any minute now... but wait, first I have to read over THIS... and then edit a few things... then pull up my blog website... transfer it in... post it... re-read it on line... do one more edit... check my email... send my dad a happy birthday message... order another cup of tea... oh SHIT! Then it will be time to go to that movie. Darn

(My monkey mind... with the voice of an evil professor):

Ha progress! I’ve escaped your clutches for one more day!

PS. Just for the record... I'm not going to that movie. I'm going to get to work. Self honest awareness can be a real bitch sometimes.

Playground Scientist

You know what’s hard?

Exercising conscious mental will, choosing thoughts that are beautiful and understanding with love the tendency to create problems that will feed the analytical mind.

It is not enough to be happy, to be bliss, to be one... not for the wiring, the way we’ve come to understand the world. To let go and let everything connect in a jumble of things is a frightening endeavor. The inability to live without the cerebral capabilities of categorizing and labeling is the source of much mental illness. But the mind has evolved to include a reflexive quality and in that reflection it is clear that perceived understanding through the ordering of things is no real peace at all. The self imposed superstructure is both a crutch and a false lead in terms of where we come from, where we’re at, and where we hope to go. These lily pad leaps of mind move towards nothing more than hypothesis. The giant experiment that is one’s life will inevitably yield data that both supports and contradicts this teeter-totter thesis. From these supposed smatterings of findings we then go about our days working from the belief that what we’ve gathered in our play pen laboratory is truth. We are bad scientists. We are not scientists at all. Just because we have silently and collectively agreed on the parameters of this test piece doesn’t mean everything isn’t still a variable. The attachment to this idea of life, the dependence on it and our relationship to it and the expectation that things will always be in alignment with how you see them is what leads to mind crushing pain and disappointment and the need to hold on and go to sleep.

This is one reason why things are not as they seem. This is one reason why gut reactions always reveal more of the truth then long drawn out pro/con paradigm based decision making.

Nothing is real. Nothing is right.

And this is not a sad thing.

Oh! My Mama

My mum has always gotten the brunt of it. I have been my whole life blossoming and growing and shining and rising and with every layer I peel back, with each level of wisdom unearthed I time after time hand her the skin I’ve out grown and then run off to play with my friends.

Most know me now as an aspiring actress and singer unafraid to fill a room with voice, with energy, with light. But there was a time when I was sick with nerves, when my voice shook from the first note to the last and when I would cry until my heart was a stone after every exam, recital, competition. And guess who drove me to all of these? Guess who I snapped at the whole way there? And guess in whose arms I balled afterwards?

I left Vancouver Island this past Wednesday afternoon. It was a beautiful day and I was in every sense setting out on a new set of adventures pure in the knowledge that I would be returning soon. But still I was a mess. I was miserable. I was terrified. It is safe there, it is healthy, my parents love me, I can be an earth child, I can wear no make up, I can do yoga on the beach, swim naked in the ocean, I can be quiet, not have to prove anything to anyone and be still, let the moment be enough. And as I stared down the barrel of my own crazy aspirations, my insides tangled up and I forgot once again where I truly sought comfort (and who had all along facilitated this epic journey in every sense). Mama.

Mothers and daughters. Why is it so weird? Are we mirrors too close to ever see anything clearly? Or are we so clear to one another that it reveals too much all at once? Expectations? Sure. Lots of them, on both sides. But the love. Oh, the love. How many of us really know how to be loved? I think if I could really let all the love I have in my life fill me I would spontaneously combust. And I think mothers have a hard time feeling loved. I think they must forget how to feel it because they are so busy pumping love OUT. And eventually if they really do forget how to feel it in return, and/or how to fill themselves up again then they start to take pieces of themselves, break them down and convert them into love. A good friend told me that her mother said to her the other day, “Oh you and your universe!”. How weird it must be to create this human and then watch it wander off into the sunset of its own experience. And how horrible when they won’t let you be part of it. 1997-2007 must have been pretty rough for that hey Mum? Sorry.

So this is my formal invitation, to my own mother to invite her to be a part of my universe, and to anyone who wishes to share their tender fragmented human spirit with the one that gave them breath. Welcome to my universe Mama, I made you a key... come and go as you please. And if you ever feel like doing some dishes or my laundry on one of your visits, I’m totally cool with that, it would NOT be considered robbing me of my independence.

Kidding!

Sort of.

Post Script:

For a more sensorial salute to mothers check out one of the most beautiful modern folk songs: Alela Diane "Oh! My Mama"

The Art of Receiving

Palms open

Sky bound,

Fingers unclasped

Free to release,

to receive

Trickling between them

there can be no choice

Of what flows out

or in

Fearlessness, in the face

of the blue storm

Hiding nowhere

facing everything, smiling

at the whipping wind

Arms stretched, aching

in their reaching

in their welcoming

Trying to free the heart

from its cage between them

Back to the ocean

which is everything

that resonates

With freedom

Expectations are binding

God only knows what will stick

If anything

So until the heavens

Call my name

All I can call is my

prayer,

heart’s song,

delicious desires,

nonsensical dreams,

painful tender hope

And you,

and me,

and you and me

we are connected by the space

There is no form without space

No love without loneliness,

And no receiving without letting go.

When Things Fall Apart

Often times we try and impose a structure to a day, a set of chores, or even the development of art. Until recently these self imposed boundaries have terrified me. I have feared that in the attempt to shape things in a particular way I would rob that exploration of the openness to receive spontaneous visits from creative angels. When I give my writing, music or acting infinite room, no pre-conceived notions, beautiful things happen. But there comes a point in every artists life where you have to get over yourself and your own superstitions and rise to meet the art rather than demanding it come down from heaven to fill you each and every time.

I believe in technique, and I desire a life of craftsmanship. I want to be able to do a 6 month run of a show and not have to rely solely on the spiritual transformation of my own soul every night. But even amidst this wish for a creative career that is a viable and consciously conceived entity, I know I’ll still love it every time whatever I thought I was building falls apart and the raw moment reveals itself. I take these workshops and I read these books and I immerse myself in these rehearsal processes and what I feel like I’m being taught is: be present, whatever is there is what should be there, the space between is the tender part, listen to it, and stop trying to do something that someone will think was smart, be willing to let the music play you, prepare for its arrival with respect and hard work, and don’t ask for that hard work to be rewarded, hard work is the currency with which we pay for divine intervention, and do we ask for a round of applause when we pay for a banana?

But there are hundreds of schools of thought and it can be daunting to sift through it all for what it is we’re looking for. And isn’t what we’re looking for just a way in? Or a way out? I said a while ago that the only thing I new to be true was: start now, do everything and experience it fully. This is how I approach learning, creating and expressing myself. And I am learning the value in preparation, in structure, in form and in the conscious choosing of a process. The balance I seek allows for the angels, invites them even, but does not take it personally if they don’t appear. My cognitive and imaginative development and artistic manifestations of this journey are both totally up to me and not up to me. I promise to show up, and I endeavor to offer something true, and craft it in such a way that it is worth someone’s time; but whether it rings for days in the deepest meatiest folds of your heart or butterflies fill the air and block your ability to see the words or the stage in a fantastic dance of revelation... well that part’s not up to me. So I’ll try to continue to be here, in the place between passion and least resistance, and work to make this space comfortable, welcoming, safe and hospitable so that when the winged messengers come calling they might stick around for a day or two enjoy their stay and then decide to move here.

That’d be nice.

when the melancholy fit shall fall - J. Keats

Somedays feelings come rolling in over the hills of the heart and instead of breezing through, they hang in the valley and loom large threatening rain but never fully letting loose. These days are both ripe and muted. And sometimes muted wins the meta-physical tug of war and settles down damp and camps out, blanketing everything with a beige mist. Melancholy is a paralysing non emotion. This indifference towards all things is a void completely out of the moment and answers to no one. It is a bully, and when it smells vulnerability it pounces and slowly sucks the life blood from its prey.

What is melancholy apart from playground anti-hero? A sort of psychic vampire? This abominable grey-ness seems to go after the light, or at least snuff it out when no one’s looking. Some times he comes in the night when eyes are closed and hearts are open looking for easy targets. Once in, he can stick around for a desperate moment or an entire numbed lifetime. He is one of the strangest and slipperiest tricksters in the crime files of the human experience.

Poets throughout the ages have written of and continue to be stalked by this cloaked monster. Sensitive beings are the first to be attacked during melancholy’s massacres. They are often on the cusp of the exact things he is drawn to: hope, desire, love, tactile emotion, yearning, inquiry, excitement. These are delicious nectars from which to suck. And turned in on themselves they are hilarious puzzle pieces for our villain to try and jam together again. It is as if an entity possesses us when melancholy takes hold. Our spirit calls for us from a richer mental landscape, but there are bars on the windows and we are lying on the floor barely conscious enough to hear her reaching out.

How do we get up again? How do we rally ourselves and make a break for it when our arms and legs have pins and needles? The first thing, is to relax rather than resist. Resistance pleases melancholy, it reinforces his sense of strength. That's how bullies work: the more scared you are the less work they have to do. Then, once the walls start falling down you can allow for the spiritual membrane to be permeated by whatever is in that moment. Melancholy wants you to cave in. But a willingness to non judgmentally observe one’s surroundings is this brand of self obsession’s greatest tonic.

There is wisdom in fully experiencing each moment, no matter how uncomfortable or awkward feeling; I have learned through trial and error that repression and denial lead to no paradise. But indulgence is as futile as resistance. So, I let the waves wash over me. Sometimes I have to work my way back to the surface for breath, but I play in them even as I get smashed and tossed around. I honour the fact that the ocean of life is far more powerful than I. So, when I feel too tired for either fight or play, I simply sit on the sands and observe with reverence that from which I came.

Live Life Love Life

In the face of change, do we run or do we thrive? For all of my adult life I have changed either geographic location, job, school, my romantic relationship or entire perspective on life (or some combination of any/all of these) approximately every eight months. One would think then that I thrive on change, that stimulus and the shifting sands of uncertainty are great friends of mine. But with every new lily pad leap there is a new layer of fear to release and I am coming to understand that my relationship with change has been somewhat of a dependent one.

It is natural to fear change and to be sick to the stomach when uncertainty comes a calling. This is indeed my first response. But my second one ushers in a giddy knowing: all of life is uncertain and we hang in the balance at all times. Once amicable with this truth, the larger more obvious times of jumping down the rabbit hole are accompanied by an openness and a trust that lets the good times roll. “Dislocation puts all your observation skills at their best”, a writer responded when asked why she prefers to write away from home (sometimes in a motel only ten miles from her house). Our instinct is to survive, and when we change village, tribe, or role, our ears prick up and our eyes grow wide in search of food, water, and an understanding of our surroundings. In short, newness awakens the senses.

But why can’t we be this fresh to the moment all the time? Why do we nap our way through the day? Is it possible on an ordinary Tuesday to be open to observing with a sense of wonderment the markings on the tiles in our own kitchens, the sounds of the neighbours children playing, or our partner picking out the shirt they’ll wear that day? I love travel, the world, new experiences... I have been living with awareness and expanding rapidly largely due to the stamps in my passport and the random jobs I’ve piled on my resume. But I don’t want to rely on flipping my life inside out just so I can feel alive. One of my greatest fascinations with the human experience is how to live with this ripe mindset though the trials, tribulations, and seeming banalities of life. Staying conscious throughout 5, 10, 15 years in the same job or house or marriage... Falling asleep is not an option for me. But as I un-pack, re-pack, and lug another set of suitcases back and forth across the continent of North America I do so with gratitude for the adventure, fearlessness in the face of uncertainty and faith in the eventual manifestation of the balance between grounded sanctuary and electrifying rich moment to moment experience.