Brain Creativity Training and Nature

According to Bas Korsten at the Harvard Business Review, spending time in nature is one of the best ways to train your brain to be more creative.

Because you can!

And you must.

Contrary to what we often hear, creativity is not inborn, but a tendency toward which we can train our neural networks. When we slow down and take in nature, we are getting into step with what makes our brain function best: elements that have supported heightened awareness and sharp focus and intelligence for thousands of years: fresh air, light, beauty, the rhythm of the tide or the whispering of the trees, and even the chemical compounds produced by forests, which have a positive effect on the brain.

We don’t increase intelligence through technology. In fact, studies show detrimental effects on focus and attention. By contrast, our brains function more like plants than machines—as Amanda Gefter points out at Nautilus.

If you’re feeling separated from your creative life, find a way to let nature speak to you. Go to beauty. Take time out to walk or pamper a plant or drive to a park or meadow or mountain or shore.

This brain training might be the best fun you’ve had in days.

The Real Danger of Social Media – for Artists and Writers

Or What I Learned About My Addiction

Hal mentioned how hard it is to be creative these days—but he’s on Facebook every day making puns with friends’ posts.

Ben is alluring on Instagram—that smile, and all that transparency, sharing antics of his kids—no wonder his followers love him.

But Hal and Ben are writers and artists who never have time for their creative lives anymore, and feel dried up inside, have no ideas, can’t find their passion.

I have many clients like Hal and Ben. Especially during the pandemic, it was hard to find that inner grit—creating alone, in quiet. It was easy and convenient to share on social media channels.

As someone who spent one to two hours on social media for years, I understand. In my own social media forays, I had a wonderful time. (Well, some of the time.*) I was engaging in most excellent conversations. I was spreading word about what I do, and my business, and this was of utmost importance—right?

When honest with myself, I had to admit my attention span was tiny, my novel-reading been replaced with scrolling, and that I’d taken an unnecessary, sometimes unhealthy detour on my creative journey.

I still get caught in that loop. Now I have a bit more understanding about how it happens.

It starts innocently.

I think, “Oh, what a beautiful shot of these sanderlings running in the waves and wouldn’t this make a wonderful post?” Or I think, “I should let my followers** know about my recent (trip, event, published story, green smoothie). So I post on Instagram or Facebook or Linked In and, boomerang-like, check to see, first, how many responded, and second, who responded and then I think, “Maybe I’ll get a better response if I . . . ” or, “Maybe they’d like . . . ”

As a creator, I’m losing touch with what I want most deeply to create FOR MYSELF.

There’s nothing inherently evil going on here, but I’m obliterating the time and space and mental energy I need for:

self-listening

pondering

inkling

exploring

discovering

brooding

getting curious

absorbing

I’ve pushed my inner creator aside while an imaginary audience takes up residency. I’m spending my writerly-artist currency on what other people want—not even that, but what I imagine other people want, which is all a guessing game.

Doing so, I lose touch with that free, original artist, the Dream Kid.

Daily I have to choose away from this, feeling the tension of my choices. I do love sharing—but it has to be prioritized far below that sweet creative absorption which only happens when I make psychic room for it.

I think of my creative life as concentric circles, and the inner rings are the most private, quiet, least shared—but the most rewarding, too.

It’s about your purest passion.

 

 

*The nature of addiction is that the brain finds a hit that isn’t one hundred percent all the time, such as a slot machine. When it’s hit-and-miss, the brain gets an extra chemical boost, and engages and re-engages with fervor.

**Think about it. Isn’t there something creepy about craving “followers”? Would you follow you? Do you listen to yourself? Are you worth listening to? It’s enough to work on my most important relationship, the spiritual connection between self and the Divine.

 

 

 

 

Poetry Marathon – Will I Make It?

When I applied to be a Tupelo Press 30/30 Poet for February and was accepted (for the second year, hurray!), I had no idea that my client and work schedule would be exploding—in a good way—making it rough to write a poem every day.  I’d made a commitment. I had to be okay with rough.

The writing process was distilled down to capturing impressions. It became a matter of: “just feel and go.”

It’s exciting to discover that no matter how blank my mental slate is, something will always arise. No matter how spent I feel, I can find one more drop of energy and reach for the pen once more.

Yesterday’s poem was born out of words within thirteen inches of where I was sitting. (I was too tired to go digging around any further.) I got curious, snapped photos of things – the label of my slippers, the tag on the heater, my mug, my lipstick. I created a poem from these random words, thirteen in all.

In the home stretch, I’m 88 percent to my fundraising goal for Tupelo Press. Will you consider supporting me? Three days to go, and I’ve burned so much mental and creative energy, and I feel joy of knowing I’m bringing good things into the world through the amalgamation of a literary nonprofit and the work of my heart.


 

Having formatting issues, so this is just a piece of today’s poem.

Being Thirteen

Thirteen Words to Hand Within a Thirteen-Inch Radius

 

Withdrawn

 

How the camp

counselor de-

scribed

me in her letter.

Granna chewed

on the word.

“Why weren’t you

friendly?” Granna

wore reading

glasses steeped in

White Shoulders perfume.

Peered at me as if

the letter were a

report card, which

it wasn’t,

merely a concerned adult

noting a child

who was quiet—

too quiet.

Please pay attention.

 

Dear

 

How Mother began

every letter from the

hospital. Also a term

of endear-

ment I never heard from

anyone real but her.

June and Ward

Cleaver used

it for each other.

 

Foams

 

at the mouth. How you

know to stay

away from the bloodhound

loping behind

the chain link fence.

 

Transmission

 

went out of my ‘69

Corona six years

later, but my friend

the mechanic poured

jug after jug of

fluid under the hood,

into a tinny, airy engine

so light you could see

the street underneath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Marathon! A Month of Writing Poems

Dear friends, I’m challenged, excited, baffled, stumped, inspired, energized, disorganized, off and running in the month’s marathon of writing 30 poems in 30 days for Tupelo Press. Your sponsorships mean so much! Enjoy the poems of my fellow marathoners, or scroll to see what landed on other days. They are working poems—most in draft form—because no poem lands whole the day it emerges.

Here’s my Day 9 poem . . . .

 

Pigs in a Blanket

At the IHOP

silver-quarter horse in the lobby—

Giddyup! Pat the shining mane.

Get down it’s time for breakfast.

Sun glows giddy amber and cherry

through glass jugs of table syrup.

Grandma Mimi—Isn’t this fancy?—

orders for Mother, Theodore, and me.

Your mother’s doing much better.

Probably we won’t have to stay

with Grandma Mimi like we did last year.

 

Monday

Mother won’t roll out of bed.

I pull a sock soft and wheezy with dust

from under my twin bed, doing things I don’t know how

while Mother drools on her pillow—

pills on her nightstand, numbers by the phone.

I go looking and looking for a shirt,

the gruel of the day.

 

Tuesday

At the end of every line, lunch, recess.

Unchosen to bat, run, catch, kick.

Bitter as the thin skin of the red apple I eat for breakfast.

 

Wednesday

Late to school, a bad time to walk in,

heads turning, teachers frowning,

I wait on the swings for lunchtime

spooning the porridge of loneliness.

 

Thursday

Theodore doesn’t bother eating,

walks out with math book,

hand-me-down shirt dragging its tail.

I shake down the rattle of cereal with no milk.

 

Friday

Log Cabin syrup on Wonder Bread

kind of like french toast.

Last drops sweet like sugar all the sugar all the sugar.

Find dirty pants, wear those.

 

Saturday

Lincoln Logs on the floor.

Breakfast an idea forgotten in the tall stack of the day,

toppled.

 

Sunday

Grandma Mimi says it quiet, like other tables shouldn’t hear.

Doing better, aren’t you, Marilyn? 

Mother’s hand halfway to her mouth,

ruffly egg white on her fork.

Theodore pokes his over-easy.

It pops and runs orange yellow.

My plate. I unfold the blanket.

Three brown-pink sausages, safe together,

hot, close, stuck.

Roll out of bed, piggies.

I pick up the syrup and pour, drowning all.

 

 

 

Saying Yes in 2023

Lighthouse - site of Write at the Light retreat

YES

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out—no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
—William Stafford, from The Way It Is

The title of the above poem, YES, is my word for the year, inspired by the yes’s of 2022.

The nonprofit, Centrum, said yes to my application for a residency as an emerging literary artist. Every morning in October, as a ferry coasted in, I poured out my heart on paper while overlooking the sunrise on Admiralty Bay in Port Townsend.

My biggest YES from my experience was reframing my roles.

When I left on September 30, I was a coach who writes.

When I returned on November first, I was a writer who coaches.

I said YES to scheduling writing. I said YES to a new writing office. I said YES to creating quality time for stories, poems, and novels, rather than squeezing writing into spare moments. I saw that my energy and enthusiasm and joy would benefit every writer and creator I work with.
I learned to say YES to finishing a story rather than first answering an email. To quit wasting time on social media. To say YES to what I love, rather than something Instagram fans might like.

I braved rejection. I relaxed ideas of how my house should look, how I should celebrate Christmas, and whether I’m being “responsible.” I chose to be responsible to my most personal, creative, and spiritual goals, and in turn, to let this responsibility flow out into the world.

I found balance despite the discomfort of doing things differently.

I witnessed your YES’s, too. In Clark College classes both live and virtual, Zoom sessions short and long, a Vancouver women’s workshop, a stunning group of Master class writers, and in the blossoming Mastermind writers’ series. I enjoyed hundreds of awe-striking one-to-one sessions with phenomenal writers.

I feel grateful not just to be your coach, but to be one of you.

Wild Words Camp in July, along the Siuslaw River North Jetty, was a landmark event. Thank you to the writers who were part of the longest and most rustic adventure I’ve ever led: three nights leading the way to YES, unfolding in vulnerability, authenticity, trust, and community.

Thank you for showing your power and creativity at Wild Words Retreat in August at serene Siltcoos Lake, where fantasy stories mingled with southern roots on an old river dock in the fog. We kayaked, hiked to the beach, and journaled in sun and wind by the waves.

I felt awe leading your December adventure of Write at the Light at Heceta Head Lighthouse. We climbed forest hills, combed beaches, and witnessed night beams of the lighthouse sweeping through mist over craggy ocean cliffs and velvety trees. Toasty beside our Victorian-Christmas fireside, we shared darkness and light.

We writers say YES when we boldly take time for ourselves or our work. Whenever we sit with pages and laptops and notebooks. Every time we listen to each other, admire what we’re reading, or treat ourselves to adventures, classes, cohorts, and coaches.

Without guarantees, but with a full heart, I’m saying YES to whatever is next, for me and for you.

Don’t Leave the Beach!

 

I can’t believe it’s been nine months since I moved to the Oregon Coast. Some adjustments have been huge, some small. One thing that’s changed: all my jacket pockets are lined with sand.

When I walk the beach, the sun gleams on frills of incoming tide. Waves ebb, revealing sunset striations of shells. Driftwood branches twist like the elegant limbs of dancers. The rocks are warm and curious in their smooth, odd shapes. I stoop, turn a stone in my hands, stand breathing.

Can’t resist filling my pockets.

Then I get home and empty my pockets. The rocks are ordinary, dull, flat rocks, and the shells are all broken, and the driftwood is riddled with knotholes, leaking grit all over the floor.

What happened?

I left the beach.

It’s the same with our art. When you or I absorb ourselves in wonder, relaxation, musing, and breath, we recognize the beauty we are holding. But then we walk away, removing ourselves to a harsher light. We set down our ideas, shake our heads and say, “What was I thinking? That idea (story, painting, poem) isn’t special. It’s a waste of time.”

Being a brilliant artist seems to require technique or talent or something we haven’t got.

Not true.

Being brilliant is this:

Staying on the beach.

You can’t sustain passion for writing or creating if you are hurrying yourself along to states of obligation and judgment. Away from the beach, away from the rapture.

I’ve learned how to help myself and others get back to the beach—figuratively, as well as literally.

We can experience breath and ocean, a salt breeze, a stone sparkling. We can fall in love again with our own way of seeing the world.

Don’t leave the beach! Join me in taking time out this summer, a little time every day, a little more time every week, or perhaps a deeper plunge on a retreat. Relish your deepest ways of being. Notice and collect all the beautiful things worth keeping.

Why Be a Rockstar? Why Get Published?

I was at Willamette Writers when first introduced to the writing of William Stafford two decades ago. The poems seemed understated and bland, and I was hoping the speaker would move onto a sexier topic. I have to chuckle, because now Stafford is my favorite poet, his beautiful, spare language full of music and zesty truths. Sexiness at its most elemental.

I stumbled upon this video of the poet (who died before I met him).

Stafford reads “First Grade,” which reminds us of what it is to be children conflicted about performing.

Stafford, the acclaimed Oregon poet laureate, then tells about: writing a poem about garlic for a free dinner. Getting published in some unremarkable high school newspaper. Incidental places where his work found a home.

This great soul found joy in getting published, wherever his work was welcomed. The giddiness he feels over these little wins is evident. Just look at that grin.

No haughtiness, no self-consciousness, no ego.

I had to admit that somehow, I had come to be deeply suspicious of my own desire to get published. I began leaving it out of the equation.

“Oh, that’s just prideful and conceited. You’re a show-off,” I told myself.

I lost touch with that child inside who is just so happy and proud about what she is able to do. “I made something! Look! I’m sharing it with the world!”

What could be purer, sweeter, or more fun?

If you’ve relegated “getting published” to the rubbish heap of selfish dreams, think again. It’s not about showing off, but showing up as the rockstar who is enjoying her place in the glittery lights for the sheer, humble sense of fulfilling her purpose.

This impulse to share our talent is something good. Brenda Ueland says writing is “not a performance but a generosity.”

I was able to sort out what was selfish and what was beautiful. I am grateful to William Stafford for showing me with his smile, what the difference is.

If you’d like to take the next step toward getting short writing published, join me for Get Published class at Clark College July 11 & 12, 2022, on Zoom.

 

 

Get Published in 2022!

Class: Get Published in 2022
New dates: Monday and Tuesday, March 7 & 8, 6:30 – 8:30 pm PST

Want to publish a short story, flash fiction, or poem? Time to learn a little strategy, perhaps? I love teaching this mini-seminar for Clark College—it’s completely different from most of my classes, where we concentrate on the generative creative process and don’t worry about the outcome – namely how to publish. This time, we get right to it. Here’s where to look, how to prepare your manuscript, and the nuts and bolts of submitting.

We’re going to be focusing on short works, and how to find publishers for them. It’s a deep dive, lots of fun, and rich with information you can put to use immediately. It’s live on Zoom, with low pressure and high support for each participant.

Here is the link at Clark College Community and Continuing Education!

 

 

Update: 30 Poems in 30 Days

Dear Friends:

Taking part in the 30/30 Project began with the thrill of accountability and the challenge to daily arrange and rearrange my poem pieces like a secret tray of Scrabble letters in a game, anticipating my next (hopefully!) brilliant move.

I could not have made a start without daily journal practice. Poems came in flashes and sparks. I walked my beach trail in the rain on February 1, acquiring new boots which brought to mind boots of the past. I loved stumbling upon these memories and parallels. “Rubber Boots I” and “Rubber Boots II” emerged. “Sally,” is my first villanelle.

The other thing that happened was that J entered into the next phase of house renovation, and this meant taking down, for sanding and painting, each and every door in our home. Which meant writing poems without solitude, conflicted by appreciation and frustration, working through the chipped paint of the mind. The poems: “Unhinged,” and “Just Let Me Back into the Damn Bedroom.”

Holed up in the cubby-like laundry room, I “found” a poem that recalled a volatile relationship of thirty-five years ago—a validating discovery, “OCD.”

Then I misunderstood the 30/30 instructions and posted outside the guidelines, which brought correction. Though completely mild, the experience threw me into a tailspin, pricking the old me, always exceedingly careful to follow every rule. I had to laugh at my ego, “Waiting to Be Discovered,” another poem. And the gig was up: “Sneak.”

Meanwhile, winter showers melted into glorious sunshine, and J and I experienced many gorgeous adventures. We hiked above a lighthouse to the barking of sea lions, and walked daily to the river jetty, eyed by harbor seals. We tunneled into woods, emerged onto crashing shores, gasped at molten sunsets that gobsmacked us for language. (The double haiku, “Dusk.”) Which brings me to today’s poem, in which I don’t feel I deserve this amazing life and landscape (Day 11: “What They Don’t Tell You About Paradise.”)

The demand to write a poem each day has made it hard to work on short stories (and woe to my novel and nonfiction book, relegated to Procrastination Purgatory), but hurray for the prose-poem/flash piece I wrote for a short inspiring class by the amazing writer and teacher, Sherri Hoffman.

Most days I start my poem by 8 or 9, leave it for several hours, then scramble to revise or perhaps just complete the draft, by 7 or 8:30 pm . . . (it’s due by 9 pm)! There have been many moments of panic and harry. (I’m not sure if I can use harry as a noun here, but there you go.)

It’s constantly there: the awareness that I need to do more, learn more, try more. I’m floored by the talented poets in my company. It’s all I can do to keep from total intimidation some days. If you haven’t explored all the poets and their poems, you’re in for a marvelous treat.

Thank you for the soul-sustaining messages. They’ve made me feel blessed and connected. The fact I am more than halfway to my fundraising goal makes me marvel. Many of you have donated even while experiencing financial constraints. This is humbling.

I am inspired by partnership, and am learning so much. I’m delighted by this Tupelo Press opportunity to participate in the literary arts.

Thank you.

Day One: Writing Marathon

Here I am, Day One!

There’s so much mental activity that goes with “putting your work out there.” I notice it’s not the work – my notebook has been scribbled in daily, and it opens with ease every morning like a friend comfortable to share with me this old habit. But a raw poem is a space just for me, and it’s a bit weird when I invite others to come and look at it, one step removed from “scribble” by having it typed  and “framed” at Tupelo Press.

Today’s poem, “Knife,” began this morning with slicing an orange – a Cara Cara, to be exact, with the Petite Carver, to again be exact.

I hope you enjoy it!

And while you’re at it, please enjoy the work of eight wonderful fellow poets who are marathon-ing alongside me, writing 30 poems in 30 days for the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project!

 

I’m Writing A Marathon!

I’m running in a marathon – of poetry!

I’ve been invited to be a guest poet for Tupelo Press in their 30/30 Project. Along with eight other writers, I have committed to write 30 poems over 30 days, beginning February 1. It’s challenging; I have a day job and I’m easily sidetracked, as we all are. But this is calling to me: the chance to make a difference in the literary arts, which enhances our lives in deep ways.

Each of my poems, in its raw form, will appear online on the Tupelo Press canvas, each day. You can access them right here on my blog. I have set a goal to raise $500 to support this wonderful literary nonprofit, and I’m asking you to donate as I write my poems!

In February, you can read my daily work as it emerges each day, as well as the work of my eight cohorts. Together we hope to fund the beautiful vessel of the humanities that is Tupelo Press.

You could donate $1 per poem, or $5 a week, or perhaps a one-time gift that would help me exceed the $500 goal. You can donate here.

On Mondays I will send out a weekly update to donors with a behind-the -scenes commentary on one or more poems, and what went into the making of the poem. (Some poems may be very intimate, others silly, and all will be a complete surprise to us all.)

What world would it be without this magic? Poetry captures our human experience and brings it to the page so we can feel and see and live particular moments again and again.

For years, I was too busy with others’ writing to focus on my own. Then, the pandemic brought sweeping changes and I didn’t have to commute to venues or Clark College classrooms anymore, as my teaching went virtual. I realized I had enough time, and with the support of family and friends, I went forward.

In 2021, my writing appeared in Luna Station Quarterly, Nightingale & Sparrow, The Griffel, Montana Mouthful, The Sun, Saturday Evening Post, Nat. Brut, Sad Girls Lit, The Good Life Review, Nat. Brut, and Halfway Down the Stairs. These pieces were speculative fictions, stories both real and imagined, and poems. And the new publishing event starts tomorrow!

I can hardly wait to see what I can do with you by my side in 2022, beginning with the 30/30 Project.

Deep breath . . . here I go!

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time

It’s the strangest crime that has ever happened in his neighborhood, and he simply must solve it: who speared the dog, Wellington, with a pitchfork?

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time is electric, illuminating, humbling, maddening, charming, funny. I was floored by its impact on me. This was my first time watching a play with a mask on the entire time, and to the credit of Portland Center Stage, I completely forgot about the mask by the time the play finished.

It so happens young Christopher Boone (played by Jamie Sanders), is on the autism spectrum. He has to figure out: what do you do when people do mean things that don’t make sense? How do you solve a mystery if people won’t answer your questions? What if someone close to you is lying?

Poignant and crisp, this show reveals the earnest and straightforward and mathematical view of this 15-year-old whose brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s.

“I always tell the truth,” he says. He isn’t believed. Especially by the police officer who finds him kneeling next to the neighbor’s dead dog, and puts a hand on Christopher–who has always made it clear to everyone, he doesn’t handle physical touch.

This sets in motion events that stress Christopher to the breaking point. Oh, and when he finally does break down, it wrenches your heart beyond belief. The theater was frozen, stunned, as Jamie Sanders emitted the most unearthly, yet pure and believable sounds and movements of pain that I’ve ever witnessed.

It wasn’t all pain. There were aha! moments. Such as . . .

“The word metaphor is a metaphor,” according to Christopher. “I believe it is a lie.” Daunting and humbling to this poet who leans hard on figurative speech.

There were laughs upon belly laughs. The antics of the six voices who help tell the story are absolutely hilarious. There were wonderful moments with Ithica Tell, one of my favorite Portland actors, whose portrayal of the kind but no-nonsense neighbor, Mrs. Alexander, was incredibly real and satisfying, not to mention done with a gorgeous West Indies dialect. Mrs. Alexander listens to Christopher, doesn’t react to his weirdness or take offense when he doesn’t like the color of her pastries. She is open to learning about his world.

The same goes for Siobhan (Ashley Song), Christopher’s teacher, who encourages him to write a book of his detective work. She reads it intently, to the audience, and this becomes the narrative structure of the play. I was re-inspired by this work that has found me, of helping people tell their stories–out loud–especially those people who don’t fit into the world’s idea of “normal.”

Indeed, I often feel abnormal, as a highly sensitive person, as a SAD sufferer, as a trauma survivor. I have to limit screen interactions, get outdoors daily, be vigilant with self-care. It’s nothing like what an autistic person experiences, but it’s still “different ground”–and differentness can build bridges. Jamie Sanders said in an interview: “I have a different set of circumstances than Christopher. I have Tourettes, and it causes me to be sensitive to the world around me.” He uses that connection to make Christopher Boone dazzlingly real in a heavy-footed, big-eyed, math-loving embodiment.

But oh, the richness of this journey. To make it even better, on December 21, Portland Center Stage is having a sensory-friendly performance, for those who can easily be overloaded. They have created an amazing way to soften and mitigate the effects of bright lights, loud noises, and crowds. It makes me proud to be a PCS fan.

Stick by your truth. Even if you are put together differently than others. And please, please, seek out the stories of those who might see seem strange at first glance. Listen. Maybe, repeat back. No metaphors are required.

 

 

Photo credits: All photos by Owen Carey/Courtesy of Portland Center Stage.

 

©2021 Christi Krug

Are you saving colors for a day that will never come?

As a kid, there was nothing more wonderful than getting a brand new 64-color box of Crayolas, taking them out, lining them up, reading their fantastic names, and finally, coloring. Inevitably, the crayons would get broken or lost and the built-in sharpener would clog. Soon there would be only dull stubs of grays and browns, all the “good colors” gone.

Still, I could always find a pencil by raiding my brother’s desk drawer. So I drew and doodled and even had some drawings published in local papers. But I lost my confidence in using color. I didn’t own paints (except the watercolor set, in worse shape than the 64-Crayola-box, each color a congealed pool muddied to brown.)

As an adult, I could supply myself with that wonderful box of crayons whenever I needed to. I would browse the art store and collect markers and paints. This time, the colors remained pristine, untouched, each tip sharp, each paint oval gleaming in its white tray. Some day I might use them, I told myself. I never did, but I hoarded them all the same.

And then came a day when I stopped thinking of myself as an artist altogether. I was avoiding color. I still didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know how to paint. I wasn’t really good enough to be an artist.

So it happens that we often avoid what we long for—-because we think we’re not good enough.

What kind of sense is this?

About fifteen years ago, I started taking art classes with Lee Baughman, a watercolor instructor and lover of color whose enthusiasm, talent, attention and skills changed everything. Wow! With Lee’s encouragement, my work burst into color, and I was later drawn to the most vivid medium I’d used yet, pastels. I learned about pastels from the fabulous Jane Aukshunas. Today, I love both mediums as well as both teachers. I’ll forever be grateful to Lee and Jane for transforming my relationship with color from one of fear and avoidance to joy and delight and proficiency.

There’s no greater joy than finding your colors, the things you love, and experiencing them without self-consciousness. Words, stories, poems, memories—these pop with color as surely as these mountains.

Rediscover your colors as the light returns, in:

Free Soultisfying writing sessions!
Being fully present and listening to body, soul, and imagination. Free through Winter Solstice.
Please join me:
Monday, December 13, 4:30 pm PT
Thursday, December 16, 11 am PT
Friday, December 17, 11 am PT
Winter Solstice Eve, Monday, December 20, 4:30 PT
Email for Zoom link. (Cameras off.)

 

 

 

Writing to Experience Life

“The artist is comfortable only with going back to the way in which the chaos is first encountered—that is, moment to moment through the senses. Then, selecting from that sensual moment-to-moment experience, picking out bits and pieces of it, reshaping it, she recombines it into an object that a reader in turn encounters as if it were experience itself: a record of moment-to-moment sensual experience, an encounter as direct as those we have with life itself.” –Robert Olen Butler, From Where You Dream

We all process the world in different ways. The way that feels most natural, healing, and exciting to me is writing stories.

I don’t write to be recognized or to make something happen for someone else, but to experience truth in my own individual way. By listening to what Life is saying to me, and by crafting the stories that I’ve lived, I experience deeply. This includes welcoming and writing the stories that arise in my mind through imagination, and considering the possibilities I’ve almost lived, as well as what I’ve observed in the lives of others.  All these things help me see, feel, touch, taste, and hear my life–through story, experiencing past, present, and future.

What’s so beautiful about creating art with stories and words is that it doesn’t have to make sense; my brain doesn’t have to calculate answers. And yet there’s a rightness, a rhythm, a pattern in each piece. Words are the vehicle. Stories transcend words, conveying deep understanding.

It’s really about the images and senses we exchange as we make and share these stories and chapters and flashes and poems.

If writing is one of your ways of understanding, of finding deep knowing, I invite you to really get this writing groove on: be affirmed, be supported, find a few hours a week to feel the wonder of exploring the universe in your own, unique, word-full and yet beyond-words way.

Wildfire Writing, a virtual class offered through Clark College, will be offered privately this summer beginning June 16.

This is your highest value for the money, and can launch you into an entirely new way of feeling into your life.

Join me!

 

 

Photo credits: Top: Brett Mott, Bottom: L. Feather

Contact Christi