i want to convince you

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"Nobody really knows what the arts are for... Once you deal with the difficult problems, like earning a living and getting planes to fly and trains to run on time, then you can have a bit of art, sort of like the ice cream at the end of the meal. What I want to convince you of is that that isn't the way it works at all...

That the only way that we can continue to cooperate and work together as a human society, and as the community that we are, is with lots and lots and lots of culture and art. I want to convince you that it is the most important thing you can do." - Brian Eno

how wonderfully precious this one life is

“When you take the time to draw on your listening-imagination, you will begin to hear this gentle voice at the heart of your life. It is deeper and surer than all the other voices of disappointment, unease, self-criticism and bleakness.

All holiness is about learning to hear the voice of your own soul. It is always there and the more deeply you learn to listen, the greater surprises and discoveries that will unfold.

To enter into the gentleness of your own soul changes the tone and quality of your life.

Your life is no longer consumed by hunger for the next event, experience or achievement.

You learn to come down from the treadmill and walk on the earth.

You gain a new respect for yourself and others and you learn to see how wonderfully precious this one life is.

You begin to see through the enchanting veils of illusion that you had taken for reality.

You no longer squander yourself on things and situations that deplete your essence.

You know now that your true source is not outside you.

Your soul is your true source and a new energy and passion awakens in you.”

- John O’Donohue, Irish poet and philosopher (excerpt from his book Divine Beauty)

the hardest part of this job

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"You can do anything you want. I had forgotten that and I continue to forget and remember and forget and remember that I am free. That is the hardest part of this job." - Miranda July

write every damn day

As of this morning, I have done Morning Pages for 250 days straight!

I’d say the most noticeable impact it’s had has been on my confidence. When you consistently show up for yourself and do the thing that matters most to you each day, I’ve found the inner critic, while still alive and well, doesn’t have as much ammunition.

The whole routine/ritual around Morning Pages is now my favourite part of the day. And I am not a morning person!

A follower on Instagram asked if I had any advice on getting started and my response was just that - to start. Just begin and keep going, even if you think what you’re writing is rubbish - it will be, that’s the whole point. But after a month or so you’ll find yourself coming up with new ideas because all the muck has been cleared out. Or you’ll feel differently about something you’ve been stuck on. So start, and then persevere. And create a nice ritual around it too, like making tea or coffee, or having your favourite music playing.

I meditate first - I’m still going on my daily habit there too (since 2 May 2017!) - and then I put my AirPods in and select my favourite writing music. Most days it’s Ludovico Einaudi but other days it will be Beethoven or Bach I want to hear. Anything gentle. Then I pick up the pen, turn to a blank page and write for three pages. Often Tom will bring a coffee in while I’m writing and thanks to the noise cancelling headphones and being in the zone, I will barely notice!

And once the pages are done, I am free to get on with my morning. My writing work later in the morning, or later that day, is always better for having cleared the decks first thing.

The next step, at some point, will be to go through the Morning Pages books and see what themes keep appearing, what words and images I repeat, what is clearly uppermost in my mind. They are the clues to where I might go next on this creative journey.

Do you do Morning Pages? Or do you have a morning creativity ritual?

eavan boland: the lost art of letter writing

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay 

THE LOST ART OF LETTER WRITING

The ratio of daylight to handwriting
Was the same as lacemaking to eyesight.
The paper was so thin it skinned air.

The hand was fire and the page tinder.
Everything burned away except the one
Place they singled out between fingers

Held over a letter pad they set aside
For the long evenings of their leave-takings,
Always asking after what they kept losing,

Always performing—even when a shadow
Fell across the page and they knew the answer
Was not forthcoming—the same action:

First the leaning down, the pen becoming
A staff to walk fields with as they vanished
Underfoot into memory. Then the letting up,

The lighter stroke, which brought back
Cranesbill and thistle, a bicycle wheel
Rusting: an iron circle hurting the grass

Again and the hedges veiled in hawthorn
Again just in time for the May Novenas
Recited in sweet air on a road leading

To another road, then another one, widening
To a motorway with four lanes, ending in
A new town on the edge of a city

They will never see. And if we say
An art is lost when it no longer knows
How to teach a sorrow to speak, come, see

The way we lost it: stacking letters in the attic,
Going downstairs so as not to listen to
The fields stirring at night as they became

Memory and in the morning as they became
Ink; what we did so as not to hear them
Whispering the only question they knew

By heart, the only one they learned from all
Those epistles of air and unreachable distance,
How to ask: is it still there?

- Eavan Boland