Mapping The Heart

Heartwood 24"x12"

I am mapping something these days. Every painting that emerges resembles a map of sorts. There is a strangeness to it all as if I have become a cartographer, an explorer recording and etching out the roads and river of some landscape that seems important to me. But perhaps every true creative experience feels like this?

I have come following an unknown river with a paintbrush and some pencils. Little continents and landforms appear, rising and sinking into oceans of grey and white, and taupe. Perhaps I have taken up membership in some strange society of cartographers of the heart. Surely my fees in this club are overdue?

The rivers and roads arise from the wandering of sharp tools across the painted surface, small, fierce nomadic creatures, exploring the terrain. The scraping nomads need to be held loosely, with love and trust, so they can trace out their own trail because they know best. The marks that emerge have their own lives. I must let go to bring them into being. These lines remind me that we are never in control anyway. It is merely our human delusion.

And the landforms that emerge are pleasingly irregular, tracing coastlines of the wandering mind, lakes of deep thought, rivers of delight, oceans of sadness.

Geography of the Heart 16"x16"

The webs of crevices and cracks tell stories about the beauty of imperfection. Tracing tiny lines I am reminded that the richness of the world is revealed to me when I attend to the details of life. The crows feet of the land spread out to show it's smiling face.

And while some of the work is done by attending to detail. I need to move outward and view the work from my space capsule. I am reminded that everything is composed of both attention to detail and an ability to stand back and see the big picture.

Road Trip 16"x16"

My map making project went on retreat this past weekend, spending time with master cartographer of the heart and mind, James Baraz. We spent the weekend practicing paying kind attention to being present. I learned that breaths are like snowflakes, no two are the same. I will offer you two tiny pearls from my expedition. If Joseph Conrad wrote "Heart of Darkness", I think James Baraz wrote "Heart of Lightness".

 Ram Dass said: The secret of contentment is to plumb the depths of the moment.

James told of some insights he had reciting the following phrase while on retreat. He said it to himself but then also envisioned other people. He said the really tough one was thinking of his son and saying this: "You are the heir to your karma. My happiness depends on my actions not on my wishes.

Islands of the Heart 8"x10"

"Choose A Nice Road"

Care- Full Buddha 12"x 24"

"When an artist or sculptor creates a picture or a statue of Buddha sitting upon a lotus flower, it is not just to express his reverence towards the Buddha.  The artist must above all want to show the Buddha's state of mind as he sits: The state of complete peace, complete bliss." - Thich Nhat Hanh from "A Guide to Walking Meditation" Yes, this is it, it is to show what is possible for all of us.  I needed to be reminded of why I am drawn to do these paintings.  It often doesn't make that much sense to me because my real love is abstract work. I am not really a figurative painter.  So secret revealed by Thich Nhat Hanh!

 I pulled out this little book for 2 reasons, one because I have been following the progress of the "Open Mind, Open Heart" Retreat at UBC in Vancouver and secondly because I head off on a 7 day  meditation retreat of my own tomorrow.  As walking meditation will follow most sitting periods it was really nice to read Thay's simple and enticing words on walking meditation.  He says things like, " If I had the Buddha's eyes and could see through everything, I could discern the marks of worry and sorrow you leave in your footprints after you pass, like the scientist who can detect tiny living beings in a drop of pond water with a microscope.  Walk so that your footprints bear only the marks of peaceful joy and complete freedom. "

And perhaps I can entice you to join me in a little walking meditation this week.  Perhaps these words of Thay's will call to you: " Choose a nice road for your practice, along the shore of a river, in a park, on the flat roof of a building, in the woods, or along a bamboo fence.  Such places are ideal, but they are not essential.  I know there are people who practice walking meditation in reformation camps, even in small prison cells."

Twice this week I have been reminded by spiritual teacher's talks that practice should not only lead us to joy and ease but joy and ease should be present when we sit in meditation, when we practice.  The reminder is a call to give up effort which drains energy and aim for ease.  This is such a good reminder for me as I head into retreat.  Sometimes I have the feeling I need to "work" hard to be present, that what comes up will be painful and difficult, demons of all manner, but here is the reminder to relax into it.  Thich Nhat Hanh reminded participants to embrace their pain, but also that they can change the channel on habitual thinking, that releasing tension in the body will ease physical pain.  So it is with these thoughts that I head off on my week's retreat.   Happy walking and writing and painting.  I look forward to seeing what you've been up to when I return!

One Thing Doesn't Stand Against Another

I have been painting, not on canvas, not on cradled panels, no paper involved. No Buddhas, no abstract marks, just swaths of green paint, the colour of Martha Stewart's fancy chicken eggs. Painting walls, struggling with the application of eco friendly paint that doesn't quite cover like that old toxic stuff. But it's done now, the zendo painted, from it's deep purply brown that stole light from the room, to a gentle green that calls the forest in at the windows.

I like the feeling of small accomplishments, a room painted, a meal prepared for visiting friends, a feeling somehow of making this place home, cleaning, tidying, bringing order, becoming the caretakers and grateful dwellers of this place.

We have been working to get the inside things done in the hope that the sun will soon shine and call us out to spend whole days in the great outdoors, the dream of pale sun deprived northerners before summer arrives. We burned that last of some old branches, paying attention to the burn ban that took effect today even though the ground still sucks at your boots at the far end of the pond. Other branches will get composted in piles in the woods. Always honest work to do in the country, work that employs muscles and organs and quiets the mind. An opportunity to hear the towhees screech, see an eagle fly overhead, watch a deer loaf in the meadow.

And while all the work and pretty making is fine, it is important to know, I remind myself, that I can never really control life, by creating a facade of order. I can never stop the movement of the shifting and changing nature of life by trying to arrange things in ways that please me. Trees fall, roofs leak, muscles get pulled. And yet this doesn't negate me working to create beauty or enjoying the pleasing look of a pile of brush removed from a grassy knoll. One thing does not stand against the other. In fact knowing that things will change, that things can turn in ways that may not please me, helps me when the inevitable happens. I am not so surprised. I may still be rattled, but I don't ask, why me, why now?

I am reading a wonderful little book on karma called "Kamma and the End of Kamma" (kamma is the Pali for the Sanskrit, karma) by Ajahn Sucitto. Here's a nice little quote from the book as I head off to read some more of it. I am filling it with underlines and undoubtedly I will share more wise bits as the days go on: "... Because I can't hold onto what I want and can't get away from what I don't want, the underlying mood of self is restless and unfulfilled. I keep trying to find the good state... but this one isn't quite it. Thus there is dis-ease. Liberation from this dis-ease and stress is thus synonymous with Awakening out of the dissatisfied self."

There Are Always Openings To Be Near My Own Discomfort & Desire

As part of a workshop I am doing I am spending a lot of time exploring the artistic process. I have become increasingly aware of the struggle involved in the process and my inability to manage it in some way that feels skillful or graceful.

I have also been hearing the call to work in other ways as well as "buddha images". There has been some inner nudging to work in more abstract form and so this is part of my exploration these days. Going off in new directions can be difficult ground to cover, like going off to kindergarten for the first time. Where do I hang my coat and who will play with me at recess?

One thing that has followed me around the studio, in a harassing kind of way is my judgmental mind (excuse me officer, I'd like to file an harassment complaint against my mind).

As part of my exploration I am learning to be more patient and kind as I work. I am building new mind habits, slogging my way out of the old neural cow paths. There are so many elements of this process that are like any aspect of working with the mind, doing good solid mind training.

First I have to wake up to the process and see clearly when I am heading down the well worn trail of self judgment and frustration. Once I wake up and see this, instead of just rushing headlong down that tangled path, and getting scratched and torn in the brambles, I can stop. If I don't stop, what I have learned is that a paint brush and frustration = a mucky, contorted mess. Pretty simple equation.

I have decided that my painting, my canvas is like a living being and deserves the same kind of consideration I might offer to other living beings. I need to ask it what it needs and then I need to wait until it answers. Then I proceed as best I can with kindness and care as I attempt to deliver what it needs (I'm like the milkman, excuse me painting was that chocolate milk? one quart or two?) Sometimes I get the order wrong but I don't have to get (all pissy about it, as my daughter would say). If I am careful I can go whoops, I just gave you a litre of sour milk and some cottage cheese, let me take that back, it's not lookin so good on you)

And so the process continues. I have been following my heart in choosing materials. I love little bits of words from magazines and books, vintage sewing patterns and flat, matte paint. Gesso and conte crayons are calling to me, as are lots of texture and bits of old fabric. I just explore putting them all together. And I am enjoying working in simple neutrals as I explore form. It seems if I put colour on hold I can focus better on form.

I am having this delicious time mixing licorice blacks and smokey greys and whip cream whites. I have been using text as form but also discovered I can apply words so they retain some of their quirky entertaining meaning which is a joy to me.

I don't think you can see the words on this canvas so here's a little sample of how I have been entertaining the canvas with words. Under the circle it reads "Later, I ran into reality and invited him to dinner. There are always openings to be near my own discomfort and desire, no matter where."

In the upper left framing a square the text reads: "Brace yourself, this is where you get to see we all have grace sometimes." To the side of this the text reads: "Everyone has amazing talent which is just covered up while eating ice cream. Regardless of the journey every movement has depth and wings"

And if you start in the upper left of the circle you can follow the story around: "what can you imagine on a park bench by a river. Every word has a world behind it. I catch a glimpse of make believe. Eyes are tricky. It was like seeing the hand which would hold the secret unable to be kept anymore. Walls painted with dreams and intention , life without coincidence had never seemed important to me until that moment."

So that's the bedtime story, kids, stream of consciousness painting. I'm calling it "Every picture tells a story." I'm just learning how to listen

Painting Over Attachment: The Art of Sanity

For some time, a long time actually, I have been conscious of duking it out with some strange studio demons. It's hard to paint when you're wearing boxing gloves and this has become a serious issue for me. Perhaps roller derby collage would be a more practical option. Toss in a little Dharma, stir vigourously and presto we've got some pretty weird reality TV. But I digress in the effort to protect my dirty, little secret. Mara, that rude little apparition, has been shovelling heaps of frustration onto the canvas for months. I create, I judge, I don't like. I avoid. I don't know what to do. I add another layer of frustration. And so on and so on. Ah, a Sistine Chapel of Samsara. And yet I sense this is where I need to go, that there is something authentic and intensely me in the process. I am a slow learner. And yet there is hope. There is a special class for people like me in the basement of every spiritual high school, next to the lunchroom.

And then recently, as I prepare for another move, I unearthed an older copy (winter 2009) of Tricycle mag and what should pop off the cover but an article by Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche called "The Art of Awareness" or "art as a transformative practice". I don't know how I missed this article first time around. I must have been standing on my pointy little head in November or maybe it was all that packing and moving! Alice and I fell into a packing box and missed the tea party.

At any rate I have been reading this piece over and over and hoping it will sink into my bones, mineralize my artist's backbone. It meshes with the workshop I took with Nick Bantock who spent the weekend trying to pull us deeper into our art. I emerged frustrated and snarled in a lot of self doubt but recognizing some essential truth, treading water, coughing and sputtering. And then this morning Tricycle's Daily Dharma offered up another piece by Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche.

As I read this one I realized the deep sense of attachment I had to creating something I liked, something others would like (as imagined through my own eyes), something sellable, something that did not ruin a canvas. Attachment, attachment, attachment, the penny was dropping with a pronounced thud. Of course I have felt tied up in knots, when I spend so much time looking over my own shoulder, lurching between creator and judge in the twitch of a crossed eye. Recipe for a body and mind pretzel fest! Did I mention my sore back?

I read about DKR's fearlessness as embodied in his art teacher's (Matthieu Ricard's mother, Yahne Le Toumelin!) instruction: "She would say, “When you get attached to anything that emerges on the canvas, destroy it!” I would watch her create something beautiful and then paint over it or scrape off the paint. “Destroy, destroy, destroy.” This is not to say that beauty or attachment to beauty is a problem. Destroying them is not an aggressive act, an annihilation of self or a rejection of experience. It enhances creativity. It is a natural wearing away of attachment and becomes a part of the creative process itself—a way to engage a bigger mind. The more I do this, the greater the satisfaction. I am not fixated on creating something “good” or “pleasing.” My interest or focus is on the process of creating and connecting to my natural creativity. The main discipline is to let go." Yes, yes, yes, I have been looking for this roadmap.

Now I know this may seem odd, even shocking to artists out there who are not Dharma practitioners. "What is the point of this, destroying something beautiful that you have created?" And of course this is not necessary. No one needs to do this, if they don't feel drawn to. But for me there is a call to produce something that comes from past my attachment (maybe you go there already, through some natural process of your own, this is quite possible) For me DKR's following comment is what beckons: " Nevertheless, the artist continuously has to step out of the way and not obstruct the nature of mind that is in the work as it is being produced..... I can remove myself from the work and allow it to have its own life.... There is a deep feeling of satisfaction. The satisfaction comes in knowing that the evolution of the painting on the outside reflects how resolved I feel on the inside through the discipline of relinquishing all attachment. The moment I stop painting is when the outside and the inside conicide in this way. That is when the painting itself reflects a natural, uncontrived awareness."

And the one final aspect of DKR's articles that calls to me is about trust. I am working with attachment and trust these days in my work, wrestling and writhing and struggling around the studio floor. Some days I am down for the count with Mara flashing me the victory sign. It is not a pretty sight and yet it seems to be part of the process for me. I think I am coming to the point with DKR's help where I can just go in work (some days) and be okay with what happens (ah acceptance).

But back to trust, which is a deep and penetrating issue for me, one that is taking a long time to get through my thick, rhinoceros skin. Here's what he has to say about trust in the artistic and life process: "When we talk about creating art—or more importantly, the art of living a sane life—it means trusting our basic nature and its natural creativity. Natural creativity is something very large, the essence of everything. As artists we make such a big deal about creating something “good,” something “pleasing.” We want everyone to love our creations in order to confirm our existence. Our insecurities, hopes, and fears haunt us. Either we feel we lack the ability to create or we use art as a means to solidify ourselves: “Look here, my art is in the Guggenheim!” “Look at my résumé, I danced with the Russian Ballet!” Don’t let your insecurities rob you of your trust! Just remember, this natural energy created the entire universe—a humbling thought that puts our own artistic creations in perspective! Think: “The universe is here! Where did it come from?” Then have some trust and let this natural energy express itself."

You can watch him create a painting here and this will give you a little feeling for how the process works. After that I think it is just going in there and working away until it finally sinks into our blood and bones and the ah ha moment arrives. Happy creating!

From The Shadows

This little 8x10 was an experiment (isn't all art?). I love creating textured and layered backgrounds, scratching and rubbing and working the paint. So after the layers of brown and green and yellow had gone on and dried I sat down in front of the canvas and closed my eyes. When I opened them, images suggested themselves from the background: first the moon and then the reflected moon, then the Buddha in the foreground. I closed my eyes and looked back again. And so on and so on until I had a host of shadowy figures. I thought of how sculptors talk about looking at a piece of stone until the form makes itself known and then their work is to release it.

This is a darker, more ethereal work than usual and in a strange way it painted itself. The process was a further exploration of trust and faith that I talked about several posts back; trusting that if we wait and listen something will come. It might not be what we expected, but something authentic will make itself known. ( Trust is also a focus for August over at Donna Iona Drozda's blog).

In our (my) usual rush to fill up the uncomfortable void where we don't know what's next, I generally trod over this delicate part of myself, me of skeptical self, of unexplored trust. So there was a slightly uncomfortable relationship with both the creating and with this dark, shadowy image that emerged, but there it is. I suspended judgment and called it done.

I have been enjoying the post retreat posts (does that make sense?) over at 108zenbooks, ones asking us to dig a little deeper, asking questions like what life sentences have we given ourselves. How do we hold ourselves hostage by the stories we tell ourselves or the ones we have accepted that were told to us by others? We create the self as a solid entity, almost by accident. For the most part we forget to tell ourselves the story of our Buddha nature, of our kind, generous, talented and wise inclinations.

And so this little painting reminds me that the shadow is the necessary accompaniment to light. It is always there even when we don't notice it. If we pay enough attention and suspend denial we might learn something.

All this talk of darkness and light makes me think of The Sandokai by Sekito Kisen recited in Zen monasteries. Here is a small portion of the poem relating to light & dark: May it shed some light.

Within light there is darkness, but do not try to understand that darkness;

Within darkness there is light, but do not look for that light.

Light and darkness are a pair, like the foot before

and the foot behind, in walking. Each thing has its own intrinsic value

and is related to everything else in function and position.

What Does The World Need?

Here's a piece that's been waiting to be finished, hanging out in the dark orphanage of homeless Buddha paintings. It started its life as an abstract and seemed to call out for more, advising me at one point that it was merely the ground for something further. So it has followed in the footsteps of several other Buddha Brothers (or sisters) getting involved with some pattern pieces and a shiny tar gel enso.

Sometimes I look at this calling out for more in my work. Sometimes it is really about the underlying feeling of not being good enough, of thinking I need to be more than I am which of course spills on to the canvas. Sometimes I am right and a piece needs more, I need to push a little further and sometimes it's simply a manifestation of that human delusion of "not good enough". The work is in knowing the difference. Sometimes I get it wrong.

I ran into a couple of Dharma friends today quite to my delight. Over egg salad sandwiches wrapped in sunshine, we sat outside and talked, what else?, Dharma. As the conversation meandered and rolled through the sun filled patio, one friend confessed to feeling guilty about time spent on long term, intensive practice. She found what came up as she sat were feelings that she wasn't contributing to the world and thoughts like "who are you to be doing this". Again it seemed there was this human delusion of "not being good enough", not doing enough. Different situation, no paintings involved, same delusion.

Her situation particularly reminded me of something I'd read the evening before in Jack Kornfield's book, "The Wise Heart" and I offered her my loose recollection of Kornfield's wise words which are: "The quieting of our mind is a political act. The world does not need more oil or energy or food. It needs less greed, less hatred, less ignorance. Even if we have inwardly taken on the political bitterness and cynicism that exists externally, we can stop and begin to heal our own suffering, our own fear, with compassion. Through meditation and inner transformation, we can learn to make our own hearts a place of peace and integrity. Each of us knows how to do this. Gandhi acknowledged, "I have nothing new to teach the world. Truth and non-violence are as old as the hills."

May you offer the world what it needs.

Mara's Been Dipping Into The Paint Pots

I know you've seen this image before.  It's kind of like I'm serving you leftovers.  Last time you had the whole thing and now you're getting just a small portion, an ear, an eye, a bit of leaf.  And why leftovers you ask?   It's not that I haven't been cooking up anything new in the old paint pot, it's just not quite ready for public consumption, half baked, perhaps?

This painting is called "Buddha Cries A Leaf".  And even with the tear  it doesn't feel sad to me.  This Buddha feels connected to and concerned for the world, for the forests and trees, for the natural world.  The tear drop leaf is a tear of compassion and concern.

I'm thinking about the creative process tonight.   I'm going to throw a quote out to welcome you, like a little red carpet.  Here let me unroll it:  "And often the process of creation is unenjoyable, tormenting, and frustrating, just as a prayer may open to the difficult and confusing struggles of life." -Shaun McNiff "Trust The Process."

I have been watching this phenomenon of the creative process as a source of torment and frustration over the last two weeks.  I have been  looking over my own shoulder which makes me sound like a strange 2 headed zen monster.  In getting some paintings ready for submission to the Art Gallery's summer show, here's what I've learned.  For me painting is a long windy process.  I don't usually know where I'm going and there are often detours and dead end roads along the way.  I need lots of time and space to navigate all the unknown curves.  And so it goes that a reservation at a nice hotel that needs to be claimed by 4 pm, doesn't really work for me.  I knew that before I started but thought I would just take the trip and everything would work out fine.  Ha!  My studio became a dojo where instead of quietly and meditatively taking up the paint brush I engaged in a few rounds of wrestling.  Killer Kowalski put on his best blue leotard and stopped by for a round or two.  Most of the time I had myself all twisted up in a figure four leg lock and was pulling my own hair.  Killer thought this was pretty funny stuff!

When I go to paint, usually I am just going to paint, if that makes any sense to you.  On a good day I explore the materials, muck about and hours can pass.  I am happily engaged and sometimes something pleasing emerges.  But because I "needed" to produce something by a specific date for a specific audience I made myself all crazy.  What would the curator like?  And  of course, it must be really good, after all this is the big, public gallery here in town.  So by now I am really twisted up like a psychotic pretzel.  But I know better right.  So I try not to do this which some how gets me deeper into the doodoo.  I am struggling with what I should do, what I shouldn't do.  Those thoughts which I know are unhelpful are hiding there in the back of my mind, slinking around in the dark.  I can hear the little paw prints on the hardwood floors.  So it's me, some paint, some canvas and Mara.  There she is stirring the pot.  She is in her element.

I can see what I do and yet I spend days wrestling, feeling defeated and getting nowhere.  Maybe I should give this up.  Maybe I'm not really supposed to be doing this.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.  Mara stirs a little doubt into the yellow paint.  Then she smears a little attachment across the canvas.  A big messy dark spot of desire.  I wash it all off,  sit down in my chair and close my eyes.  After a while I start again.  I ask the painting to tell me what it needs.  I try to listen.  Have faith, I say to myself like a little mantra.  And so some days I take a few steps forward and a few steps back.  I am not really pleased or smitten with anything that emerges but I try not to tell the paintings they are ugly.

And so I see how all this simply reflects age old habits of how I operate in the world.  I look at myself (like my paintings) through the eyes of some imagined curator and always find myself (like the paintings) not quite good enough.  So I get all crazy and try and make myself (and my paintings) measure up to some imagined standards.  I see how counter productive it is as I work in the studio.  I see how this little room  strewn with brushes and paper is really just a mirror of the bigger rooms that I live in.  I see where the work is to be done. 

And so instead of giving up or getting mad or depressed, or winging something out the window, everyday I get up and start all over again.  I make the effort to relax and just be.  I try to forget that  I am working toward an end.  I make it my aim to focus on the process.  Some days I am more successful than others and some days I find myself lying in a knot on the floor.   But it is the willingness to reorient and to learn that is important: the ability to add a line or two to a paint smear and make it beautiful, to rework what seems unworkable.   I am "Going, going, going beyond, always becoming Buddha" - from  "The Scripture of Great Wisdom."

The Dharma of Pain

Over at Peter's monkey mind blog, we were having an interesting discussion about pain, specifically the pain of loss.  My feeling was that when we reach out to console someone (especially in times of great grief) it is our natural empathic urge to help, the way we might quickly pick up a small child who has fallen, that makes us do this.  It is, I think, an automatic human response.  

But as with many things it can be more complicated than that.  In addition to this response it is probably fair to say that we are mostly uncomfortable with pain, our own and that of others.  Our attempt to make the pain go away through words or hugs or lollipops may well be an expression of this discomfort.

One of the interesting things to me, when I started studying Buddhism, is that one expression of attachment is grasping after things that we want, but a less obvious expression of it, is the pushing away of what we don't want.  This was surprising to me at first.  I can see how hard I work sometimes to resist what I deem unpleasant (and sometimes it is more subtle).  And pain falls into this category I think, labelled unpleasant, let's get rid of that pesky pain.

Do we ever welcome pain?  Not so much.  We even have a name for people who seek out pain and we don't regard this as a flattering label.  In Buddhism pain is considered  one of the 8 worldly conditions.  There is a little rhyme that I've heard somewhere to help remember this list of worldly conditions.  It goes, "pleasure & pain, loss and gain, praise & blame, fame & shame, they're all the same."  Isn't that interesting, all the same?  Would you think that at first glance?  Or even on the 20th look?  And perhaps that's just part of our human reflex of pulling away from the flame (or the shame)?  A little fire warms us, a bigger flame burns us.  A little cheesecake tastes yummy, a lot makes us feel sick.

And so while we don't want to go around creating our own pain, it is an inevitable human experience.  And so our work is to be with it when it comes to us, as best we know how.  As a worldly condition it just is.  We don't have to add value or drama or engage in a struggle with it.  Easier said than done.  And we do the best we can in being with our own pain and that of others.  In our imperfect human way, we may not know what to say or do, but we muddle through somehow.  If we live a life of practice we can look at it, perhaps approach it like some small wary animal, trying to see what it is.  Is it dangerous, will it bite us, should we run from it?  And gradually as we can relax and just be with what is.  We may find it is different than we imagined, that it has something to offer and teach us, that it softens us and makes us more compassionate and tender human beings, that it connects us each to the other like one of those join the dot pictures we did as kids, showing us the bigger picture.

 And if we can be quiet enough and mindful enough we may hear that still, small voice within and be guided to do what is right in that particular moment.

It's The Process Not the Painting

"I was talking with an artist friend once at a gallery opening for his rock sculptures.  I asked whether he would miss not having his favourite works around once buyers had purchased them." He scoffed, " I could take these stones and throw them in the bottom of the ocean," he said.  He meant it.  His joy came not from the objects but the work itself.  It was the act of creation, not the creation itself, that gave his life meaning."  This quote is from "Zen Guitar", by Philip Toshio Sudo.  I am quite captivated by this little book right now.  I bought it for my partner (he's the guitar player) but I pick it up often (the book not the guitar) and read the short chapters for inspiration and Dharma.  He's (Sudo, not my partner) talking about life really, the instrument is really incidental, in my mind.

I think any one engaged in any work they love would agree with Sudo's friend.  It is the process of doing what you love that is exciting and fills you with the enthusiasm that pulls you out of bed in the morning (most mornings).  If I'm not careful I can start work without combing my hair, forget to take a walk and keep on going until supper time and wonder where the day went.  

And how does that relate to the Dharma?  Well I think they are talking about  valuing the process, rather than the objects of life; the moving, living quality of doing and being rather than the stuff that we sometimes chase after.  It's easy to get confused and think it's about the money or the house or the new shoes (not that any of these things are bad) but at the end of the day if you put all your eggs in the "stuff" basket, you'll have a pretty boring dinner (oh no, not more eggs again.  Those hard boiled ones are a bit stinky).

I think they're also talking about being fully engaged in life, living whole heartedly in a round about way.  It's about finding your passion and pursuing it.  Not thinking of a thousand reasons why it will never work, how you can't make a living at it, or you're not really that good at it.  (Malcolm Gladwell in his latest book, 'Outliers' says it takes 10,000 hours to master a skill!)  It's about following your heart or your bliss, as Joseph Campbell called it.  And then you end up at the point of Sudo's friend, not really being attached to the product or the end result, but being clear about what is really important to you: the act of creating, of living.  The more you live this way, the braver and more confident you get, and I think, the more willing to take a risk or two.

So whether we remember it or not, we are the artists of our own lives .  No painting or guitar playing required, but they do add fun!  We are the works of art, our lives, the process.  So in each new moment we have the opportunity to create ourselves from scratch.  Trouble is a lot of the time we're worried about how the work looks.  Is that the right shade of blue?  Or do we look stupid, unskilled or foolish?  We're busy checking on the product, rather than jumping in whole heartedly and enjoying the process.  We would be happier, more satisfied I think, were we to paint our lives with a little wild abandon, to follow our intuition a little more, to be absorbed in the process of living.  It makes me think of a favourite movie, "Harold & Maude".  So which one are you in this little screen play of life, Harold or Maude?

Studio Dharma

I spent a long time in my studio today painting. So much of what I observe and learn there amongst the paints and canvas and bits of paper is transferable to the rest of my life.  

Here is what I learned  today sitting in the organized chaos, wearing an old sweater that could scare the cat:

1.  The longer I spend working, the more work I realize there is to do.  That's very Dharmaesque don't you think?  The more training we do, the more we see what needs to be done.  Like training, painting is endless.  We are only limited by the amount of canvas available to us.

2.  Sometimes less is more.  Oh what a Zen cliche, but even a cliche can be true!  Knowing when to stop, to leave well enough alone, to be quiet, is a valuable asset in creating a work of art or life, especially seeing as your life is your biggest work of art!  I've ruined many a painting by continuing when I should have stopped.  Where else have I done this in my life, I wonder.  eek I'm afraid to look!

3.  It is much nicer to just spend time with your canvas and paints and your family and friends (or anyone really) than to constantly be looking at them sideways and holding them up to the light.  Do I like this eye, no, maybe that line is too dark, what about that shade of blue.   Too much checking in, mind chatter and judgement is not really helpful to any process.  It's better, but oh so difficult, to just be there, open and listening, letting your response come from somewhere deep inside whether your holding a paint brush or looking someone in the eyes.

4.  A happy, playful, attitude of exploration is the best approach.  You have more fun and will probably end up somewhere more interesting, than the grim and bear it school of life.  Some of the best end results come from happy accidents, whatever it is you're up to.  Things take on a life of their own when you step out of your own way, sometimes with results you never even dreamed of.

5.  Patience, patience, patience.  Maybe that painting will look different in the morning, just like that problem I've been stewing over, or the phone call I need to return, or the email that needs responding to.  Sometimes waiting and sleeping on things(as long as they're not too lumpy) is a miraculous transformer.  And maybe in the morning I wake up knowing just the colour or brush stroke to add here, or maybe it comes to me in the shower.  And maybe I just need to spend some time staring at that canvas (don't do this to friends, it makes them very uncomfortable!)

That's what I know for now.  I learned it from a paint stained table, a yogurt tub full of dirty brushes and boxes of scrap paper.  What secrets are lying around your humble abode???  Come on, share a few....

Knowing Too Much, Too Soon

A couple of days ago over at the Humble Yogini's blog she said "The lecture made me realize that I know nothing.  Not in a bad way!  This is a good thing.  And it's an even better thing to be able to admit this because it means there is room for more learning."  It reminded me of the story where the Zen master is pouring tea for a visiting professor who talks continuously.  The master continues to fill the cup to overflowing.  "Stop, the cup is full," shouts the professor.  The master simply nods in agreement.

This got me thinking about "knowing too much, too soon." a comment that comes from some teaching but I'm not sure where.  But  this idea has popped up a couple of times this week, so it's probably time to sit up and pay a little more attention to it.

In his book on creativity, John Daido Loori says, "Once you have located a subject that reflects your feeling, it's important not to rush into the process of expression.  Wait in the presence of the subject until your presence has been acknowledged and you feel that a bond has been created.  Whether its a visual object or a sound, subjects change with time.  They reveal different aspects of themselves if you're able to be patient and allow this revelation to unfold.  On occasion I have sat for hours with a subject, waiting to release the shutter."

When I go into my studio to work I often want to get started, get the paint out and work.  Sometimes I am late and concerned over the fading light or have an alloted time to spend.  Sometimes I am just impatient me. I am not always comfortable with the waiting and trusting that Daido Loori talks about.  Wait an hour, wow, I can't really imagine it. My approach makes me think of  the "knowing too soon", the painting too soon, instead of waiting for the well to fill up or  trusting that the muse will appear.  It reminds me that I am imposing my will and  I see  that I quickly become frustrated with what happens.   The work produced from this place often turns out to be either  tentative or muddy, ready for the bin or in need of serious reworking.  If I can wait, without expectation or need, in that state of not knowing and faith, then I am more likely to find strong brush strokes and confident gestures.  It happens sometimes!  

I remember my teacher saying we are usually not aware of when we're enlightened but it's easy to know when we're not!  I can learn from the paint, from paying attention to the what the bits of paper have to say.  But this requires more restraint on my part, more presence of mind and the willingness to not know, to be able to learn.  I am becoming more and more aware of how important it is to come from this place.  Intention is everything.  "If our first step is false we will immediately stumble"  That's Dogen, and if my memory serves me right it's from the "Rules for Meditation" recited daily in many Soto Zen temples.

I had another example of "knowing too much, too soon" as I chatted with a friend over what she might do to improve her small business that she was worried about.  I threw out a few ideas but they were all met with, "I've done that, I know that."  My first feeling was "how will she ever find a solution if she doesn't want to play with any ideas?"  I could see how I've been in this place myself, one of fear and need and thinking I know.  It closes off so much opportunity, the opportunity to sometimes learn from the wacky, crazy idea, that makes you laugh in it's first incarnation.  It reminds me that the inventor of velcro came up with this idea while looking at "burrs" stuck on his pants after a walk outdoors.  We can learn from everything if we are not too full, if we are empty like the tea cup.

So it's anywhere and everywhere, our impulse to know too much too soon, to be full of knowledge and answers.  And it's becoming my little red light when I see or hear myself doing this, to simply pour out that stale tea and sit with an empty cup.

Dare To Be Simple

This abstract painting bears the hand stamped words, "Dare To Be Simple"  It is part of a small series I did called "Zen Squared".  I liked this idea, dare to be simple, when I saw it in Canadian Designer, Bruce Mau's Manifesto for Creativity.  It seems to me that the call to live simply, create something simple, is daring in this modern world, where we are constantly assaulted with the idea that more is better, more stuff, more money....more, more, more.  

I can see the call to complexity in my own painting where I think I need to do more, add more, to make a painting better.  Many artists will tell you how hard it is to know when to stop, how many a painting has been ruined by adding one more thing.  How daring is the Zen enso, just a simple brush stroke on a white piece of paper.  How many of us are confident enough to think that a single brush stroke on a piece of paper will suffice?

In my mind Zen is the very essence of simplicity, just sitting, facing the wall.  Think enso as mentioned above, think tea ceremony, ikebana, bonsai.  Think of a temple with its sparse decor.  Think wabi sabi, the beauty of the old and worn (ah there is hope for us yet.  Forget the botox we're wabi sabi.)

In a strange way I think we crave simplicity as our world gets full and busy and complex.  Perhaps it is simply the inclinations for the pendulum to swing to the other side?  Perhaps by nature humans really thrive in a simple environment?  The modern urban environment buries us in an endless outpouring of sound and images and tastes until we're left feeling a bit numb and overwhelmed.   We are left swimming in a sea of clutter and chaos, tired and confused. And so the images and ideas of Zen are cleverly appropriated by admen and flashed at us in the hopes that we will buy one more thing to simplify our lives.  We might even want to leaf through a magazine called "Real Simple" to see all the things we need to make our lives simple, closet organizers and green tea and bath salts, and, and and.

But what is simplicity, really?  Why would we be interested in it? And how do we create it in our lives?  Is it less stuff, less work, is it just the opposite of more?  I think Philip Kapleau beautifully answers these questions in  "Three Pillars of Zen" when he says: "To squander is to destroy.  To treat things with reverence and gratitude, according to their nature and purpose, is to affirm their value and life, a life in which we are all equally rooted.  Wastefulness is a measure of .. our alienation from all things. from their Buddha-nature, from their essential unity with us".  

So if part of simplicity is living with less it means we get to work with our attachments, which according to Buddhism is the cause of our suffering.   Do I really need that thing, that thought?  Why do I think I need that?  Perhaps embracing simplicity calls for us to live more deeply, to savour, to be more conscious and thoughtful of what we do and say and think.   It sounds to me that it may be simple but not necessarily easy.

Zen Bean Counting

I've been thinking about "comparisons" today.  I watched as I worked myself into a bit of a funk a couple of days ago and it was all the result of comparing myself to others.  It's a no win game (worse than a lottery ticket) and one we play all the time.  It's unpleasant little fingers start in one place and reach out quietly into all sort of mischievous places.

The trouble started after I visited a few artists websites whose work I love, one in particular, Martha Marshall whose work I find to have a wonderful sense of spontaneity, life and joy.  I love her use of colour and form.  Then comes the thought.  I wish my paintings looked like that.  I wish my work had more of a sense of freedom and spontaneity  and blah, blah, blah.

Comparison seemed to be the order of the day.  A conversation with a senior Zen student left me feeling not very wise.  He was filled with compassion and understanding and wisdom in a quiet non judgmental way.  His stories were wonderful and he always seemed to know the right thing to say. And then came the thought.  I wish I were more like that, I wish I were more wise.  And then an internal feeling that was less than pleasant.  Just that felt sense of you know.... yukiness, you've been there.

And then I went off to my studio to paint.  So guess what?  How do you think that little painting session went?  If you guessed , less than stellar, you'd be taking home some money.  Nothing seemed to go right.  I didn't like anything I did and things seemed to lurch from bad to worse.  I could see the lack of confidence in the way I applied the paint, the tenuous strokes, the way I mucked it about, then wiped it off, applied it again and wiped it off again.  And then the light went as the afternoon burned itself out and it was time to clean up

What did I learn?  Well I learned that I've been here before, down this well trod road of self comparison.  I could see that there is nothing wrong in admiring another persons work or spiritual training, its what you do with it.  Do I use it to beat myself up or as a source of inspiration?  How would my painting afternoon have gone if these encounters would have made me feel invigorated and inspired?  

 But when I see something I love and start the mental bean counting I am in trouble.  If I assign the most beans to them I feel bad and my work (or day) responds accordingly.  If I win the pile of beans this time,  I feel the dry tickle of mean spiritedness and  lack of generosity stick in my throat.  So comparison is like a buttered crazy carpet, it heads downhill fast.  But we do it all the time, slip into it, like a comfortable old sweater.  It may be torn at the elbow, covered in pills but it is what we reach for.

And when I looked deeper and said "what's this all about?"  I could see it was just another manifestation of the human predicament of  "I am not good enough,"   one of the five hindrances in Buddhism, self doubt.  We all spend our time with this one if we're willing to be truthful with ourselves.  And what is the antidote?  Well I guess first it is to see with clear eyes what I'm getting up to and feel its destructive power. And then I think there are creative options. Maybe I can remind  myself that I could compose a different ending to the same story, or  I could just let go of the story altogether.  See the paintings, beautiful, hear  the Zen stories, wonderful, do my painting, wash the brushes.  

Zen Dust

This morning as I was sitting in meditation I got a little insight into the koan of stress I've been working with lately.  (I get some of my best ideas & insights when I'm sitting.  That certainly keeps me coming back to my cushion for more!)  A couple of things became clearer to me. I have been highly aware of a feeling of bodily stress lately, brought on by the thought that I have a lot of things to do.  This morning I could see clearly that what the mind was doing here was an intense (but subtle) form of grasping or clinging.  I had this sense that my whole body was somehow reaching forward, into the future, if that makes any sense.  

Next I could see that this grasping was definitely me wanting to be in the driver's seat, wanting to control what happened.  And then it was like a little set of dominoes.  I could see this as a form of fear, this wanting to be in control, this needing to get things done.  And as I write this I realize what is fear, but a lack of faith?  There it is my grasping, my needing things to be a certain way,  my fears are all really a lack of faith.  Because faith is really a trusting that everything is fine just the way it is.  We are always taken care of and what we need is always right there for us.  Our work is really just to be present, and make our choices from that quiet place of non grasping, if we can.  If not, well what we need will come to us as well.  When we don't get it, the lesson just keeps coming back to us until we do.

And while this came as understanding I was also reminded that the desire to understand is another form of wanting.  And that as much as anything when we are in a place of confusion we need to let go of our desire to understand.  Such a western mind thing, it seems to me.  We are so attached to figuring things out and having to understand  (says she who feels she had figured something out this morning! ah we are such funny creatures,  my teacher would say!)  Ah, to simply appreciate the world in it's complexity and mystery, there is a pleasure if and when we can do it.

So that was my further exploration of the koan of stress that I wrote about in "What is the sound of one broom sweeping"?  A proverbial shaking out of the dusty broom, for now.  And so I have posted this unfinished painting that makes me cringe a bit.  It reminds me to rededicate myself to that silent, what do I know approach, to creating my art.  An approach where I simply go into my studio and spend some time with a piece.  I am not grasping after "I want to finish this".  I am not grasping after "I'd like to get on to the next piece."  I am not judging it saying "I think you're ugly."  I will just spend some time with it, getting to know it, with no agenda.  And maybe it will whisper something to me about where it wants to go or what it wants to be.  Or maybe it will remain a complete mystery to me for a while longer.  I just need to have faith.  And perhaps a nice coffee to go with it.

To Forget The Self

One of my favourite things to do on New Year's Eve is look back at the old year.  Somehow doing that helps ground me before I look forward to my hopes and aspirations for the coming year.  This has been a big year for me.  As my friend and raw food chef Jim Maurice (check him out at rawsomelivingfoods.ca) refers to it, I have had a "health opportunity" this year.  It has helped me look more deeply at my life, about what really matters and reminded me to do some things when my natural position is to avoid the difficult and procrastinate.  Toward the end of the year I found a helpful stance.  "Don't take yourself so seriously, relax and do it (whatever was on my mind).  Abandon perfectionism and self doubt, and over thinking.  

I think of  the mixed media work shown here as a bit dark.... a stiff and bandaged figure (that's gauze bandages that form this being).  The background is formed by the words of Zen master Dogen "To study the self, is to know the self, to know the self is to forget the self, to forget the self is to be enlightened by the ten thousand things."  This work sums up the "self" for me.  As my Zen teacher would say we are such vulnerable little creatures, silly little creatures sometimes.... so painfully self centred, touchy and self protective most of the time.  But there you have it the human condition....We are all in this same boat together.  So when someone does something that offends or annoys it is so helpful to remember that just like us they are trying to be happy, just like us they are doing the best they can.  Now there is our work...trying to loosen the grip of this little self, increasing our kindness and compassion in difficult situations.  (It's easy to be nice when things are going well!)

So while it has been a difficult year for me in many ways it has been one of the most fruitful, with so much learning  happening at a deep experiential level.  Recently I read somewhere that when we can see experiences that we would normally reject as "medicine for healing" we will embrace them in the same way as those things we find desirable.

So in saying good bye to the old year I would like to mention the passing of local artist Jimmy Wright, who I only spoke to on a few occasions but I found myself deeply touched by his passing.  I loved his huge iconic polar bears and bulls (after all I am a Taurus).  When I heard he had died I felt a real sense of loss that there would not be any more new Jimmy Wright polar bears born into the world.  And in closing my thoughts for the new year are taken from a friend who has had an enlightening health challenge of her own.  I can't express a better way to approach life in any year.  Eden's little prayer is  "Please don't let me take anything personally and I'm just glad to be here."  May we all find the wisdom to live from that place in 2009.  Be well, be happy!  Be present for your life!