A Year of Happenings

To paint an image, or write a story or poem, is to make inchoate ideas or unnameable feelings into tangible realities, to turn them into happenings in my life. 

To create works of art is to prove that however small life with chronic illness may be, there is an unfathomable largeness at the centre of it, from which wonders can emerge, if I allow belief to triumph over doubt.

By making art I circumnavigate that core largeness, not always knowing how to make contact with it, and not brave enough (yet) to enter it wholly, but often siphoning some gift from the depths, some vision from Source that feeds me in ways I do not understand, yet know are vital. Though while my soul is nourished by this work, the hunger always returns, which keeps me continually seeking a way inside, to see what more I can find.

To touch and converse with the largeness I know I must nurture a discipline of withness,* though it seems impossible right now, except perhaps in small, blessed moments. My capacity to receive, to engage, to participate fully, is impaired and diminished. But I do aspire to the discipline—to be a follower–partaker–knower of life’s rhythms—and hope that my heart-mind finds its way back to the experience of connection and possibility I have known before. 

One day, perhaps, I will fall unexpectedly back into grace, and dwell there for a time, where I will make the art I need to make to bring magic back into the world. 

*

The beginnings of the above thoughts came to me one night recently when I couldn't sleep, and they seemed a good way to end this turbulent, uncertain and testing year. 

I feel as if I have made less art, though that isn’t actually true, as I’ve made two more pieces than I did last year. I am, however, less satisfied with a few images, whilst also delighting in the fact that my work is becoming more visually complex, and thus more difficult to create. My problem-solving skills have been put to good use many a time, and I am rising to the challenge of drawing tricky things.

I have also learnt to sew, and have so far made three tops, a skirt and a dress, with more projects in planning, whilst continuing with knitting—including the Deer with Little Antlers Hat by Tiny Owl Knits for my niece! So once more I have achieved more than I realise.

Here are some of my favourite paintings from the year that was:

Matrix

Beneath the Mountain

Our Lady of the Stars

Our Lady of the Seeds

Mundus

Sacred Mountain

There are some exciting things afoot for 2021, so I’m going to devote myself to studio time as much as I can this summer (which hopefully will be much easier to do than it was last summer).

Thank you to all my readers and new followers for accompanying me on my creative journey, and to the people in the US and France who bought some of my work on Redbubble. I will be putting my modest earnings towards art supplies. 

  

Summer/Winter Solstice greetings, and Happy Holidays, however you may or may not celebrate them.

* ‘… a discipline of withness—of seasonal rhythm, of internal bodily rhythm and cyclicity …’ (Monica Sjöö & Barbara Mor, The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth, Harper One: New York, 1987/1991, p. 326)

Sacred Mountain

I’ve been playing with this idea for the past month, and being constantly frustrated in my attempts to bring it into being. I wanted to get it right, to have it be what it cannot help but be, and avoid starting paintings I couldn’t bring to fruition. My energy is limited, thus I wanted to get from beginning to end with as little twists in the road as possible.

I tried drawing slightly different designs, adding or subtracting details, and pondering colours or a lack of them. Yet nothing seemed right, the image thwarting my efforts to define it once and for all.

The lack of progress* (a word I hate, but I’ll leave it there) was causing me to fall into an all too familiar mindset: 

The why bother? perspective. 

The my work is not so important point of view. 

The it’s all too hard stance.

It’s a good thing I’m stubborn, and that feelings do change. I decided that enough was enough and just got started, simplifying the image to its bare essentials, and reducing the size. 

It’s not entirely as I wished it to be, but I feel the elements I left out are not yet ready to manifest themselves, and I respect that. They will feed future work.

And I need to remember to be brave, to just play and explore. That I can, and must, silence the perfectionist voice and be content with whatever emerges.

The main inspiration came from this quote:

… Silbury Hill in Wiltshire is an immense conical mound, dating from Stone Age times, that resembles a birth-cone. Sacred mountains in general are of this form, with the tip missing, which is supposed to be the place where the earthly meets the other world. This can have a literal meaning is one takes the ‘other world’ to be the place where everyone was grown through the stages of gestation, up from the single cell through the animal series to the human baby. Everyone is then born through the birth-cone, or ‘axis of the universe’. In the emblems the sacred mountain is accompanied by a world tree haunted by serpents, and a spring of water. The shaman may climb such a tree to meet the gods … (Penelope Shuttle & Peter Redgrove, The Wise Wound: Menstruation & Everywoman, 1978/1986, p. 180)

This image, I hope, contains both mountain and world tree; a spine-like fissure as the axis of the universe; and the marriage of earth with water/rain.

*A better alternative would be process.

Sacred Mountain, ink and felt tip pen (2020)

Beneath the Mountain

I think I was nine or ten when I began to become interested in image-making, and then I spent much time as a teenager ‘copying’ the works of artists I liked. (Those were the good old pre-Internet days when time existed in greater abundance and there were fewer distractions.)

Having CFS, I wasn’t well enough to study Fine Arts at uni, and in hindsight I was naive to think I could. I didn’t understand what art was, nor would the ‘student art community’ have been a suitable place for me. In the end I studied Art History instead—all theory and no practice. Again, I’m not sure if it was the best choice, but it did keep me busy for several years, and perhaps that was what I needed at the time. However, it meant that my art doings, already affected by illness, were relegated to the background of my life—to the holidays, and the rare occasions when I had a surge of energy and inspiration. 

And I still didn’t know what art really was. How it was made. What it meant. The power it could have.

Perhaps illness was partly to blame, as it has a tendency to blunt the senses and blur understanding. For me, at least. I dwelt only on the surface of life.

And perhaps family, school and culture didn’t give me the education I truly needed (not to apportion any specific blame—no one can teach what they don’t themselves know). I did stumble on certain ideas, read books from the library that I didn’t fully understand, that resonated with something deep within. Yet it wasn’t enough. I fell into forgetting, and what I needed to create got locked up inside—suppressed—hidden—buried.

I think I needed time. Time to be ready. Time enough to learn about what is from the right perspective (i.e. a non-western, ecological and ancient one). And time to let things brew.

Still, it feels like so much time has gone to waste when I could have been creating. And much is still suppressed. I’m just beginning to find my way.

I understand that there are seasons in life, and in the creative process: times of fruiting, times of fallowness, and times of filling up, in readiness to flower. But my journey is one of extremes, with low lows, when I doubt myself entirely, lose contact with Source, and feel bereft and lost. I sometimes have a great deal of trouble thinking of myself as an artist, taking myself seriously (when I am not being inappropriately grandiose). Likely this is normal for most creatives. We’re sensitive, prone to mood swings and uncertainty. 

Yet illness puts a different slant on things: the lack of energy limits activity; disturbed cognitive function limits understanding; disconnection and the inability to receive drives creativity underground, where it becomes inaccessible.

Life can be turned upside down and inside out when the heart is tired, and closes itself to the world.

Yes, creative urges do return, along with the energy to act on them. Yet I don’t know when they will come, or for how long.

I’m not in control.

This is as it should be, even if it makes things difficult, and painful. There is so much more that I need to learn from my life journey, from my body, from all of the hidden and buried things.

I don’t know if this image-making will ever form a part of my living. I was pondering whether to have some of my work professionally digitised, so I can have some good quality cards made. Maybe even giclée prints of a few of my best pieces. But during a global crisis is not a great time for such considerations. Nor do I feel comfortable going down that path—for my ability to make art may, like my ability to write, disappear at any time, with the unpredictable waxing and waning of my health. 

What’s more, my inner critic says, Is your work really good enough?—even as I try not to pay any attention.

I don’t know what will happen—to myself or the world (though I hope both world and I will learn from these strange times)—only that I must keep making images, whenever the desire to do so aligns with my bodymind’s capability. I must keep exploring the depths.

So I’ll just leave this mountain here. 

Beneath the Mountain, watercolours and gouache on gesso prepared card, 2020

Persistence

First there was the drought. Then came record-breaking temperatures and the worst bushfires Australia has ever endured. Next came the much-needed and prayed for rain … but it rained and rained and rained, and then rained some more, and there were floods and landslides and trees came down.

To say that this has been one of the worst summers I have lived through is an understatement. For weeks I was trapped indoors due to intense heat and/or smoke, and constantly on alert; then trapped indoors again because of the excessive rain. Then I ended the season with a cold.

Because of all the disturbance I barely entered my studio over the last few months, and my routine (such as it was) was lost. Now that autumn has officially begun, and I am almost recovered from my cold, I feel that some sense of normality is slowly beginning to return. Though with the knowledge that so much has changed that life here will not be the same, it is bittersweet. I dread the thought of next summer.

To top things off, I am now in one of those horrible and uncomfortable phases of the creative process when NOTHING seems to go right and I doubt my abilities completely. I have no idea how to paint, and don’t know how I ever did! And I seem to be undoing more stitches than I am sewing. I can only hope that in persisting, I will make it through to the other side of this obstructive period and find flow and fluency again, just as the destructive summer is gentling into autumn.

It is, perhaps, a good time to take stock of what has gone (mostly) right so far this year: I have made two Strata Tops designed by Sew Liberated, which I am really pleased with, and a couple more sewing projects are in progress, including one partially self-designed. I’ve completed a small knitting project, and am eager to do more. I am working on a new painting, the design of which I am happy with, if I can only work out how to paint it. And I just came across this lovely review of Heroines: Volume 2, which mentions my story. This has cheered me.

So, all in all, maybe things are not so bad. Still, bring on autumn, I say!

Wise Words: Being Seen

Being invisible can be lonely, isolating and frustrating. When there are no obvious demarcations to hint to the world that you are not functioning in full health, one can exist in an ‘in-between’ state where concessions and help are required, but rarely offered; and adjusting ones expectations of themselves, as well as the expectations of others, is an exhausting and disappointing reality.

However, ‘coming out’ as ‘other’ can also be a challenge. It requires one to advocate for her own needs, when she may not fully accept the limitations of her condition. And the prospect of placing what is, for many, a highly personal and private struggle into the public domain is daunting, to say the least. The level of vulnerability and openness required, mixed with a fear of the opinions of others, can seem worse than invisibility.

These illnesses can also leave a large gap between what is seen by others and what is known by the sufferer. This gap is easily filled by self-doubt, shame and guilt. Are we enough as we are? Will others think less of us if they know we are ill? Can we be loved and desired while also being unwell? How much of our condition do we accept? How much do we try to fight? In acceptance, is there room for hope? In acceptance, is there room for recovery?

(From Jessica Cohen, ‘To Be Seen or Not to Be Seen: Coming Out as Unwell,’ in Heather Taylor Johnson (ed.), Shaping the Fractured Self: Poetry of Chronic Illness and Pain, UWA Publishing: Crawley, Western Australia, 2017, p. 42)

The Accumulation Of Small Things

With my ability to write as I had been a few years ago at the lowest of low ebbs (and practically gone), it seems like another year has passed by without the achievement of much. I’ve posted much less often here than I would have liked. And yet, image-making has become possible, when it was a source of inaction and frustration for so many years. 

 Looking back at all of the artworks I have created this year, starting with Necklace of Mouths, I can see a progression of forms and ideas. Each painting has taught me something, and gradually I’ve been developing a methodical way of working, completing things bit by bit, day by day. 

That said, the reality is that most of the time I dwell within in-between periods of inactivity, some of them a time of well-earned rest and gestation of new ideas; but most times seemingly empty, and very difficult to endure. But what has constantly surprised me is that I keep trying again and again. I go into my studio and thumb through books, reading and absorbing imagery, and I scribble down ideas. Sometimes I just stare into space, or get distracted by birds in the garden. And sometimes I avoid my studio altogether and languish in bed. Yet somehow the work keeps coming, even when I think I have lost all faith, all ability. For that I am grateful. 

I sometimes worry that I am repeating myself—the same words, themes, images—over and over again. But perhaps that’s just the way I work, within ‘a feminine symbolic which privileges multiplicity, plurality and connection, “ebb and flow, multiple beginnings, and multiple paths…doubling back”, as Luce Irigaray described women’s subjectivity (1). 

I like this way of understanding the seasons of creative life. I’ve doubled back and started again so many times, exploring old ground, drawing more meaning out of what came before, refining and expanding, creating layers and layers of material that I will never finish excavating. There has been an accumulation of small things this year, built upon my Witchlines work from last year, as well as upon the art I made and the dreams I had half a lifetime ago! I guess that’s quite an achievement after all.

These are my favourite artworks from this year:

Mothertongue

Messenger of the Invisible

Rainmaker

The Broad One

Fluency

Despite my often wordless state, a few poems have found their way through:

Where My Being Waits

An Ode to Brain Fog

A Dark Place

Non-renewable

I had another story published in the Heroines anthology. Hurrah!

And I have even written some wise things, which I really should try to keep in mind:

With words I can defy my inner critic, and defy the powers that be that dictate how I should think and feel, and how I should even perceive and understand the world. I can defy my own sense of helplessness. This is a kind of healing magic. (From (Not) Being & (Not) Doing)

I have no idea what next year will bring, but I intend to keep gathering ideas, images and words, small though they may be, to build the soil from which I continue to grow. 

References:

1. Dr. Sarah Nicholson, The Evolutionary Journey of Woman: From the Goddess to Integral Feminism, Integral Publishers: Tucson, Arizona, 2013, p. 26

The Lost Days

There are struggles with physical limitation in illness, the pain, weakness, and fatigue that so quickly erode our pride and aspirations and make simple tasks, even breathing, so difficult. But the pressures of these limitations call forth a deeper struggle which is ongoing within us but usually unconscious—that of the self in its efforts to be, to unfold and fulfill its purpose. 

~ Kat Duff (1)

* * *     

I’ve not been well for a number of weeks, and consequently I’ve barely set foot in my studio, let alone been able to work on anything. It’s strange how the onset of illness causes interests and aspirations to slip away to be replaced by apathy and meaninglessness. It’s painful. Yet for all its harshness, this lack of purpose is itself a self-protective message from the body, saying, You must rest.

I’ve rested and done very little. Still, there is a sense of loss at the days that have been consumed by illness, each day blurring into the next, such that there are few events to anchor memory on. It amazes me that autumn is almost over. Where has the time flown to?

It seems that I can trace the passage of the last few months through the paintings I have made. Creativity was beginning to flow more easily. To not create anything for weeks leaves an emptiness that begs to be filled somehow, but it brings with it an all-familiar stuckness. It took such effort to begin to create images, and now I have to begin yet again, not knowing what I am capable of.

Clarissa Pinkola Estés says: ‘Do your art. Generally a thing cannot freeze if it is moving. So move. Keep moving.’ (2) I think this is good advice. Yet how does it apply to someone with a chronic illness who needs to cease moving from time to time? It is all the more difficult to keep a creative practice alive when there are often long periods of not working that must be endured, and a deep sense of doubt that returns with every retreat from activity. I become scared that I will never have a good idea, never be inspired. I descend into a depression that makes me wonder if I will ever be creative again. 

It’s therefore just as strange that when I begin to return to some kind of wellness—meagre though it may be—I feel what I can only describe as a sense of euphoria. Joy begins to surge tentatively through my veins. I can’t say where it comes from, for the current state of the world still angers and upsets me, so it feels a little incongruous. I suppose it must be the energy of life, for life always wants to live, even when it seems an impossibility.  

So, I’m spending time in my studio once more, taking some cautious steps back into art-making. I trust that work will emerge again soon.

To be honest, though, I haven’t quite done nothing recently. I’ve knitted one beanie in readiness for the fast-approaching winter, and am working on a second. 

And I have begun reading a book that I hope will bring me some inspiration—Susan Griffin’s account of her own experience of illness, What Her Body Thought: A Journey into the Shadows. As she says, ‘the truth is that illness … uncovers hidden reserves of strength.’ (3) 

I suppose that is why I continue on, trying to make up for the lost days, and saving what inspiration I can for the next fallow time I will endure.

References

1. Kat Duff, The Alchemy of Illness, Bell Tower: New York, 1993, p. 71

2. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run with the Wolves: Contacting the Power of the Wild Woman, Rider: London, 1992, p. 183

3. Susan Griffin, What Her Body Thought: A Journey into the Shadows, HarperSanFrancisco: New York, 1999, p. 43

Wise Words: On The Gift Of Creativity

Creativity is a gift. Too many of us refuse it unwittingly. Assaulted by self-doubt we fail to believe that it has been put into our hands. We diminish it by insisting we should have been child prodigies. We insist its only proof is commercial gain. But the creative is a gift to us from another realm, and it comes to us when it comes.

…

This has been my experience: whenever someone has determination, has a clear intuition or belief that he is “meant to write” or that she “has something to say,” there is substance to it. Sometimes this intuition occurs without any immediate evidence of the ability to express oneself “appropriately,” whatever that means to the individual. Sometimes the something that must be spoken eludes him or her. Still, if the intuition or determination is there, it is probably a reflection of inner knowledge. The task, then, is to find the way.

(Deena Metzger, Writing for Your Life: A Guide and Companion to the Inner Worlds. Harper San Francisco: New York, 1992, pp. 15 and 18)

~

When we are engaged in the creative process, we are engaged with higher forces. Mysterious forms and forces seek entrance through us, and we had best cooperate.

For this reason, I often say that art is an act of the soul and not of the ego or intellect. To make great art requires great humility, the willingness to be obedient to what would be born through us. We are immersed in our creative projects. We are subject to them as to a great wind. 

(Julia Cameron, The Sound of Paper: Inspiration and Practical Guidance for Starting the Creative Process, Penguin: London, 2004, pp. 212–213)

Moving Through Self-Doubt: Some Thoughts on Blogging

This blog is primarily for myself, to motivate me to write more—both creative non-fiction and stories—to take more photos, to eventually create more art, and to pursue creative living in general. 

Yet blogs are designed to be read by other people, and this creates a dilemma. 

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of brilliant blogs out there. Clearly, it is impossible to read all of them, or even to follow a substantial number. There are a few blogs I read regularly, and several more that I might dip into from time to time, if there is a post that specifically interests me, or for inspiration, or out of curiosity. 

The fact is that I already read a great deal, and cannot constantly be adding to this always growing, never-ending workload. Ideally, I want to read only what is most stimulating and necessary for me—wild and wonder-filled fiction and non-fiction with mythic, ecological, spiritual and feminine focuses. (Though I would also like to connect with other bloggers in the Blue Mountains, and Australia in general, whatever it is they may be blogging about, for I am sure there are some treasures out there I have not yet discovered.) 

Yet if I must carefully control how much I read, how then can I expect anyone else to read my blog?

I am not a professional writer or artist. I am not (yet) published. I am not marketing a product. I don’t have fans or followers. So how am I to find a readership? 

After the great excitement of launching this blog, and the substantial attention I received in the first few days, now the interest has dropped off sharply, and I find myself wondering why I am doing this, and if it is even worth it. This is the negative voice talking, I know, and I am doing my best to ignore it. Still, I need to renew my courage and sense of conviction that I am doing the right thing.

I have never been much of a ‘commenter’ on blogs, as I have often felt I have nothing important to say, and I have never been particularly comfortable with social networking in general*, but I am trying to remedy this now by commenting on blogs when I can, and being a bit more sociable (as much as that is possible in an online space). 

All writers and artists need encouragement—even the seemingly successful ones—though especially those of us just starting out. So, if you have stumbled across my blog and you find something you like, please do leave a comment, however small, however simple. It would make my day. And I extend this to all other blogs too, not just my own. If you enjoy something, leave a comment, for I think we often don’t realise just how important our comments and small connections can be. We can’t possibly support every blogger or creative person out there, but we can make a (perhaps substantial) difference to a small number of people.

At this time I am also needing to remind myself that I have only just begun. It is too early to be thinking of failure, of this venture being a mistake. 

April's first quarter

My mood has a tendency to change like the moon, to go through cycles of ups and downs, and the ride can be bumpy, to say the least. When I am ‘down’, all of this work seems pointless, the inner critic flaring up to seed doubt in my mind, and I wonder whether I have anything of worth to say. Yet when I am ‘up’, I remember why I am writing and making art, and why it remains necessary. We are living in a time of great destruction. Creativity is one way to counteract that, to resist those forces that seem hell-bent on destroying the Earth. Creativity has the capacity to heal, and to create meaning. It is essential, else we die to life. 

The truth is that I greatly enjoy the process of writing and the unexpected journeys I am often taken on. I enjoy the process of designing my posts, incorporating photos and artworks. I am excited about the glorious unknowns I might be drawn to write of and about, excited about what I might discover and learn, and how Offerings from the Wellspring might evolve over time. What possibilities will it open up for me? What new avenues of inspiration will be revealed? And now that my blog is here, it is here for the foreseeable future, when it might be discovered by just the kind of people who will gain something from it. So I will put doubt aside and be patient. Much is yet to come.

I know that my voice and my story may not appeal to many, but it may appeal to some. So I am doing this not just for myself, but for them too, whoever, wherever and whenever they may be. 

If you are one of those people, and you have the time, please leave a comment, say hello, tell me what you like about my work. And if you would prefer to contact me directly, you can send me a message using the form on the right side of the page.

Thank you to everyone who has read my posts so far. You’ve helped to smooth out the bumpy road at the beginning of this particular path of mine.

*Nor do I feel particularly comfortable with technology as a whole. While the Internet can be a great tool for learning, finding information, and forming connections with people all over the world, it is also awash with many of the worst aspects of Western and patriarchal society; whilst technology, and the vast infrastructure that sustains it, is one of the major things responsible for the destruction of this planet, our one and only, irreplaceable, home.