I keep thinking about a poem/quote I read from Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés that I’ll share an excerpt of:
“We do not become healers.
We came as healers.
We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become storytellers.
We came as carriers of the stories
we and our ancestors actually lived.
We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become artists.
We came as artists.
We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become writers…dancers…musicians…helpers…peacemakers.
We came as such.
We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.”
Her quote/poem speaks to me because for about the past year I’ve engaged in a deep recovery and reclaiming of my artistic self. For a long time, I joked that I couldn’t write fiction to save my life. It was a joke but also, I meant it. I didn’t think I could write fiction, didn’t think of myself as creative or artistic. I had moments where I proclaimed, “I’m an artist!” and then quickly forgot those and fell back into the belief that I’m not a creative person.
Why this picture? Unclear! It came up when I searched for “reclaimed.” Maybe the wood is reclaimed. Photo by Chris Lorensson on Unsplash
That might sound strange considering I wrote a novel but in my mind, the first one didn’t count because it was based so much on my real life. And this second novel, which isn’t based on my real life, has been a struggle, let me tell you. I fight against the belief that I can’t write it pretty much every day. In part, the struggle is because I have a perception that I’m not a storyteller, that I’m a journalist who tells stories about real life and real people but can’t create imaginary worlds. But is that really true?
The other week I found a modern retelling of “Little Red Riding Hood” that I wrote when I was probably 10. The text is in calligraphy and the pictures were also drawn by me. There is literal evidence to show I’ve always been a storyteller. As Estés says, I didn’t become a storyteller, I came as a carrier of the stories I and my ancestors actually lived. This is true in more ways than one. I’m VERY attuned to intergenerational trauma and collected my ancestors’ stories, both good and bad. I’m the family historian because stories matter to me. I am a storyteller and storykeeper.
I am reclaiming the identity of storyteller and catching up to what I am, to what I already came here imbued with. I wish it could be a “one and done” sort of thing but for me, it hasn’t worked like that. It’s been a daily process of remembering and reclaiming my artistic self.
This post is about me but I’m sharing it because I wonder if there’s a part of you that’s been long buried that it’s time to resurrect. What has stayed hidden for too long that wants to see the light of day? What do you want to reclaim, recover, or remember? I bet it’s something powerful and important.
I dream of a world where we recognize some things we don’t become, some things we already are. A world where we understand we came into the world with certain gifts and sometimes we need to retrieve those gifts. A world where we let go of identities that no longer serve us and reclaim who we truly are.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Artificial intelligence (AI) has been on my mind because as you’re likely aware, the Lensa AI app that creates “magic avatars,” or in other words digital art, went viral and jumped to number one in the Apple App store recently. Not only that, ChatGPT gained more than a million users in five days around the same time. The AI program can create A+ academic papers and Netflix-worthy scripts.
It’s both exciting and terrifying. Terrifying because as a writer and an artist I’m starting to wonder, “Will I be obsolete soon?” And sure, AI could save me a lot of time and replace the boring writing I don’t want to do anyway such as “compare and contrast the best-selling fertilizers currently on the market,” but still. When I think about AI, my stomach clenches and my whole body gets tense. If AI can do what I do, only better in some instances, what does that mean for me?
The first, obvious answer is I’m so much more than what I do. I’m not only a writer. I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend, etc. The relationships I have with people matter, a machine cannot yet replace my presence, but also the essence of who I am matters. Regardless of whether I never write another word again, I have existential value. My spiritual teacher says over and over again, “Nobody is unimportant, nobody is insignificant. Each and every existence is valuable.” So there’s that.
Humans and robots. More to come. Photo by Andy Kelly on Unsplash
But there’s also a more intangible something I bring. Cosmic consciousness, Brahma, Source, whatever name you have for it, is coming to know itself through me. I am in partnership with the divine to create something new. AI by its very nature is derivative. You literally have to feed AI loads and loads of information for it to “learn.” AI pulls from what’s already in existence and that is one of the criticisms of Lensa AI – it sampled from human artists without acknowledging or paying them for their work.
As a human being, I can create something new. I can be a conduit for the divine. Indeed, my spiritual teacher says artists are pioneers. They are at the vanguard of society, leading them toward “true fulfillment and welfare by providing the inspiration for service.” Art is not just about showcasing what’s inside my own head, but a way to spur people forward, to inspire, to encourage, and to hopefully put people in touch with something greater than themselves.
Another quote for you: Artists “have to cleanse all that is turbid, all that is inauspicious in individual life in the holy waters of their universal mentality, and then convey it sweetly and gracefully into the heart of humanity. Herein lies the fulfillment of their service, the consummation of their practice.”
How can AI possibly convey a universal mentality sweetly and gracefully into the heart of humanity? How can AI talk about the touch of the eternal and hint at something that lies beyond the mind when it’s not something to comprehend but rather feel and experience? It can’t. Not unless it copies a human being and therein, once again, my value is evident.
I dream of a world where we understand even if we’re all out of work, we still matter. A world where we recognize while AI is better than humans at some things, it’s not better at everything. A world where we hold true to the understanding there is still value in being human, no matter how much AI advances.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I’m working on a novel about a 32-year-old woman who is deeply insecure but tries to mask it with false bravado. She second-guesses every move but tries to hype herself up by saying, “Go me!” and “I got this,” nearly every chance she gets. When I show small snippets of the novel to a writing group consisting primarily of women around my age, the feedback is positive. They’ve told me it’s highly relatable, either for themselves or because it reminds them of their friends. One woman commented this is the sort of book she’d stay up late reading.
However, when I show small snippets of the novel to a writing group consisting primarily of women around 30 years older than me, the feedback is negative. They compliment the writing itself and praise my strong voice, but hate the character. They say she’s self-indulgent and unlikeable. Same character, different audience.
The novel is very much a work in progress. I haven’t even completed the first draft so I’ll change 10,000 things from now and when I deem it ready for the world so who knows how people will respond at that point? Yet, regardless of the changes I make, the experience reminds me you can’t please everyone all the time and it’s not worth it to try. What strikes a chord with one person will be disharmonious to another. Also, depending on the age and stage of life, the same person will no longer like the thing they once enjoyed!
Likes come and go. Photo by George Pagan III on Unsplash
This happened to me on Saturday night. I went to San Francisco for a play and walked just two blocks from where I used to live near Union Square. It’s a neighborhood filled with hustle and bustle. There are about a million people milling about. Cars are honking, people are chatting, and restaurants are buzzing. When I was 23, I loved Union Square. I wanted to be in the thick of things. My feeling was, “Take me to where the action is!” But now at 38, I don’t want to be where the action is. I want the antithesis of Union Square: a house with a yard on a quiet street.
A friend asked me if there’s anything I miss about living there and I do. I miss the public transportation. I could catch numerous buses and multiple train lines easily whereas now my options are more limited. I miss that part but nothing else. I have zero desire to live in Union Square again but for me at 23, it was a dream come true. People change and their tastes change. Because of that, it’s impossible to please everyone. In marketing, they say if you try to appeal to everyone, you’ll appeal to no one. That’s because your product will become so diluted and bland, no one will be interested.
This principle of “you can’t please everyone” doesn’t only apply to art and commerce. It also applies to life. At this time of year, people are pulled in many different directions. They feel pressured to go to all of the holiday parties, visit their families for 10 days, buy gifts for everyone on their list. They get stretched too thin because they’re worried about displeasing their boss, their family, their friends. But here’s the thing: Someone will always be displeased. It’s just not possible to be everything to everyone and if you try, you’ll wind up burned out and resentful.
The more I recognize someone, or rather many someones, won’t like me, my art, my blog, my behavior, or heck, the way I style my hair, the better off I am because it’s inevitable. It’s not bad or wrong, it’s just a fact of life. It’s probably for this reason you’ve seen the overused quote wrongly attributed to Oscar Wilde that says, “Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”
I dream of a world where we remember people like different things. A world where we understand not only do other people have varied tastes, but our tastes change too. A world where we recognize it’s more important to take care of ourselves than to engage in people pleasing. A world where we remember we won’t be able to please everyone.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I am very attached to the fruits of my creative labors. I want my blogposts to become viral. I want the book I write to hit bestseller lists. I have very specific ideas about the trajectory of my creative efforts and boy do I get irritated when my ideas don’t match up with reality. It’s tough being an artist y’all. My ego can get in the way and when that happens, I have to remind myself what it means to be an artist.
As I’ve written before, my role as an artist is to establish a link between the finite and infinite, the mundane and the transcendental. In terms of creativity, it means I’m working with something more than myself because I am an instrument for my higher power. I am here to be of service to others through the art I create.
Talk to any artist and they’ll tell you at some time or another it felt like they were channeling something, that something moved through them. Indeed, Elizabeth Gilbert has a mega-popular video on creativity saying exactly that. If that’s true, and I believe it is, it means I’m an instrument for my higher power. I’m the violin, not the violinist. From that perspective, I’m not in control of the music the violinist plays, nor am I in control of how well the music is received. Or in my case, how well the writing is received.
Each creative project has its own life. Photo by Anna Kolosyuk on Unsplash
I don’t know why certain things are popular and others languish in obscurity, but also, I don’t know the mind of God. However, I’ve experienced enough synchronicity in my life to know I am a piece on God’s chessboard, that there is a greater intelligence at work. That means art too. I want to write a wildly popular book that lands me on the New York Times bestseller list, but maybe every book has its own purpose and trajectory, and sometimes that means only six people will read it.
Last year at this time I sent a romantic comedy novel to every literary agent I could find. When sending query letters didn’t work, I asked my sister to coach me on pitching to literary agents live. Because my pitches went so well, I thought for sure somebody would sign me. They didn’t.
After getting rejected by every single literary agent, I finally stopped and asked, “What was the purpose of this book?” I don’t think the romantic comedy will ever see the light of day because it’s not supposed to be published, at least not in its current form. That book served its purpose because it demonstrated I can write a full-length novel, something I didn’t think I was capable of, and it also taught me a lot. For instance, it showed me I don’t actually know what I’m doing when it comes to writing a novel, but I’d like to. I want to know how to structure a novel, what makes a scene work, what doesn’t, etc. Writing the romantic comedy helped me see I need to work on my craft. So I am. I enrolled in a UC Berkeley extension course called “Developing the Novel.”
It’s only when I remind myself not every book is meant to be a bestseller, that every thing I create has its own trajectory, that I feel at peace. Every book, every piece of art, has its own “life” to lead. What I’m creating does serve a purpose. It just may not be the one that I think initially.
I dream of a world where we realize we are not solely responsible for our creative successes or failures. A world where we recognize we are instruments for something greater than ourselves. A world where we take our egos out of the equation. A world where we understand every creative project has its own life to lead and we let creative pursuits be what they are.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
This week I read a Twitter thread about the creator of the latest Netflix phenomenon “Squid Game.” According to several news pieces, Hwang Dong-hyuk wrote the show in 2009 but was rejected by studios for 10 years. He once had to stop writing the script and sell his $675 laptop because of money struggles. The Twitter thread author, Ifę, @ifetalksback, said as a writer they find the story terrifying more than inspiring.
As part of the thread, Ifę said, “They’ll be like ‘I had to wait 15 years, my mother don’t speak to me anymore, I lost a finger to typing so much, I can’t remember the last time I saw the sky. But now I have a show,’ And the comments from everyone who ISN’T a writer is like ‘NEVER give up bro, so inspiring.’”
I agree – on the one hand, it’s always inspiring when long-awaited dreams come true, but on the other hand, I find the story to reflect poorly on not only the film industry, but also us as a society in general. Hwang had to literally sell one of the tools of his trade in order to make ends meet. That’s not OK.
The picture says it all. Photo by Patrick Perkins on Unsplash
My spiritual teacher says it’s the duty of society to support its artists because artists are pioneers. “If those who are the pioneers of society … if they are forced to starve or half-starve, this will certainly not be to the credit of human society. It is unthinkable that these creative geniuses should curse their own fate.”
Seriously. Artists – and that includes writers – have a special role to play in society and letting them struggle is not cute or inspiring or romantic or whatever notions we have in this modern world. It’s a travesty. Especially during the pandemic, we’ve seen the importance of art and literature. What would we do, how would we survive if we didn’t have books to read, movies to watch, games to play? For many, escaping into entertainment was, or is, the only way to feel joy during an otherwise extremely bleak period. And yet we let artists like Hwang Dong-hyuk toil away and then romanticize his rags-to-riches story? No.
What would happen if artists were supported and didn’t need to work “day jobs” or have numerous “side hustles” or live with 10 roommates just to survive? What sort of art would they make? What would they be able to accomplish if they weren’t constantly worried about money? In case you can’t tell, I’m PISSED this is the situation we find ourselves in. Not only for artists, but for everyone.
Who does this capitalistic, hypercompetitive economy work for? Very few, that’s who. And the reality is we don’t have to live like this. I don’t know how we release ourselves from the shackles of capitalism, but I do know there are other ways to live. Ways in which people are guaranteed the basic necessities of life like food, clothing, education, shelter, and medical care. Ways in which people are valued over profits, the environment is respected, and we as a society are able to satisfy our higher intellectual, artistic, and spiritual aspirations. Ways in which artists like Hwang Dong-hyuk don’t have to sell their laptops in order to pay their bills.
I dream of a world where we not only praise artists and writers, but we value them with our wallets. A world where we support artists and writers so they can do what they were put on this Earth to do – create. A world where we understand artists barely making ends meet is appalling, not romantic.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
P.S. This might be a good time to mention I have a Patreon campaign. If you value my work, consider contributing.
All week I’ve been thinking about the starfish story. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the story goes like this: One day a man was walking along the beach littered with starfish, also called sea stars. He noticed a girl picking them up gently throwing them back into the ocean. Approaching the girl, he asked, “What are you doing?” She replied, “Throwing starfish back into the ocean. The surf is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.”
The man said, “Don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach and hundreds of starfish? You can’t make a difference!” After listening politely, the girl bent down, picked up another sea star and threw it back into the ocean. Smiling at the man she said, “I made a difference for that one.”
I love this story because it’s the reminder you don’t have to save all the sea stars, or all the people, or all the animals, or all the whatever. Even one life matters. It’s hard for me to remember that because instead I think of quantity. Quantity is what’s encouraged in our capitalistic culture. “How many views did that blogpost get?” “How many followers do you have?” “How big is your email list?” We think in terms of quantity because quality is hard to, well, quantify. How do you measure if listening to a song brought a person to tears? Or reading a book changed someone’s life? You can’t really. We try by saying, “Well, it was popular. It went viral,” but lots of things go viral.
Photo by Pedro Lastra on Unsplash
A compilation video of cats freaking out when they see cucumbers has gone viral – 24 million views and counting – but has anyone’s life changed as a result? I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with cat videos, I’m merely pointing out whether something is viral is not a good measure of its quality. I have to keep reminding myself of this because otherwise I get too fixated on the end result. I start thinking about all the sea stars littered across the beach instead of the one in front of me, so to speak. And the one in front of me matters. It matters because every life is precious and also because every person cares about what happens in their life. We are all a little self-centered, in a good way.
What I have to keep coming back to is why am I even writing in the first place? Sometimes I write just for me. But the writing I make available for public consumption is for me and for others. My spiritual teacher said:
“In every expression, in every stratum of this universe, however crude or subtle, only one refrain prevails, and that refrain is the attainment of bliss. In that artistic movement toward welfare both the attainment and the bestowal of happiness find simultaneous expression. When litterateurs dedicate themselves to the service or practice of literature, they have to let their creative genius flow in this very current: They have to cleanse all that is turbid, all that is inauspicious in individual life in the holy waters of their universal mentality, and then convey it sweetly and gracefully into the heart of humanity.”
When I write the things that matter to me, I’m trying to touch the heart of humanity. I’m trying to share my experience, strength, hope, and perspective in an effort to let people know they’re not alone. Or to get them to entertain a new perspective. Or open their hearts a little more. When I lose sight of my intention, that’s when I start thinking it only matters if I hit a certain threshold of popularity. But it doesn’t. Because like the girl throwing sea stars back into the ocean, I may not be making a difference for a million people, but I’m making a difference for at least one. And that’s something.
I dream of a world where we remember quantity isn’t everything. A world where we remember quality counts. A world where we keep in mind our intentions. A world where we stay close to the “why” of our actions and use that as motivation to propel us forward.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
This past week was stressful and exhausting. I didn’t have the energy to write a new post, but when I searched for one to share again, this one from December 2017 came to mind. Enjoy.
I envy other people’s success. Not in a mean or spiteful way – I don’t begrudge people their accolades, I think they deserve them – rather a part of me burns with yearning to have what they have. I’ve tried all the things I can think of to deal with envy – feeling it fully, using it as fuel for my own work, seeing it as an example of what’s possible, etc., but nothing has made a lasting difference.
This week the green-eyed monster struck again and I sincerely asked the universe for help. I don’t like feeling envious, it’s not something I enjoy, or how I’d like to respond to the success of others. The universe stepped in, as it always does, and I contemplated a prayer I say every morning. Specifically, that I act as an instrument for my higher power, that I may be of service to others, and that I’d like to be used as my higher power sees fit. This week it occurred to me my creative endeavors also apply.
Photo by russn_fckr on Unsplash.
On some level I already know this and it’s the main reason I have this blog, to use my words in service of others. I already believe my role as an artist is to establish a link between the finite and infinite, the mundane and the transcendental. In terms of creativity, it means I’m working with something more than me. Talk to any artist and they’ll tell you at some time or another it felt like they were channeling something, that something moved through them. Indeed, Elizabeth Gilbert has a mega-popular video on creativity saying exactly that. If that’s true, and I believe it is, it means I’m an instrument for my higher power. I’m the violin, not the violinist.
When I look at envy from this perspective, it means I’m not to blame for any success or failure. I’m the violin, I’m not in control of the music the violinist plays, nor am I in control of how well the music is received. I don’t know why certain things are popular and others languish in obscurity, but also I don’t know the mind of God. However, I’ve experienced enough synchronicity in my life to know I am a piece on God’s chessboard, that there is a greater intelligence at work. That means art too. It means perhaps certain things I write are supposed to reach a small number of people, and that’s it. I want to write a wildly popular book that lands me on the New York Times bestseller list, a segment with Oprah, and a prestigious award, but maybe every book has its own purpose and trajectory, and sometimes that means only six people will read it.
Envy pops up when my ego has gotten the best of me and I start thinking about my plans instead of the universe’s plans. Envy pops up when I think of myself as the violinist, not the violin. I have to take certain actions, I have to keep my instrument clean and my strings taut, so to speak, but the rest? It’s not up to me. Almost every successful person talks about a “lucky break,” being in the right place at the right time. I don’t think it’s luck, I think it’s grace, and that’s something I can’t manufacture no matter how hard I try. Nor am I supposed to. I’m the violin, allowing myself to be played, not the violinist.
I dream of a world where we realize we are not solely responsible for our creative successes or failures. A world where we recognize we are instruments for something greater than ourselves. A world where we take our egos out of the equation and merely allow ourselves to be played.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I envy other people’s success. Not in a mean or spiteful way – I don’t begrudge people their accolades, I think they deserve them – rather a part of me burns with yearning to have what they have. I’ve tried all the things I can think of to deal with envy – feeling it fully, using it as fuel for my own work, seeing it as an example of what’s possible, etc., but nothing has made a lasting difference.
This week the green-eyed monster struck again and I sincerely asked the universe for help. I don’t like feeling envious, it’s not something I enjoy, or how I’d like to respond to the success of others. The universe stepped in, as it always does, and I contemplated a prayer I say every morning. Specifically, that I act as an instrument for my higher power, that I may be of service to others, and that I’d like to be used as my higher power sees fit. This week it occurred to me my creative endeavors also apply.
We are all creative. Photo by david clode on Unsplash.
On some level I already know this and it’s the main reason I have this blog, to use my words in service of others. I already believe my role as an artist is to establish a link between the finite and infinite, the mundane and the transcendental. In terms of creativity, it means I’m working with something more than me. Talk to any artist and they’ll tell you at some time or another it felt like they were channeling something, that something moved through them. Indeed, Elizabeth Gilbert has a mega-popular video on creativity saying exactly that. If that’s true, and I believe it is, it means I’m an instrument for my higher power. I’m the violin, not the violinist.
When I look at envy from this perspective, it means I’m not to blame for any success or failure. I’m the violin, I’m not in control of the music the violinist plays, nor am I in control of how well the music is received. I don’t know why certain things are popular and others languish in obscurity, but also I don’t know the mind of God. However, I’ve experienced enough synchronicity in my life to know I am a piece on God’s chessboard, that there is a greater intelligence at work. That means art too. It means perhaps certain things I write are supposed to reach a small number of people, and that’s it. I want to write a wildly popular book that lands me on the New York Times bestseller list, a segment with Oprah, and a prestigious award, but maybe every book has its own purpose and trajectory, and sometimes that means only six people will read it.
Envy pops up when my ego has gotten the best of me and I start thinking about my plans instead of the universe’s plans. Envy pops up when I think of myself as the violinist, not the violin. I have to take certain actions, I have to keep my instrument clean and my strings taut, so to speak, but the rest? It’s not up to me. Almost every successful person talks about a “lucky break,” being in the right place at the right time. I don’t think it’s luck, I think it’s grace, and that’s something I can’t manufacture no matter how hard I try. Nor am I supposed to. I’m the violin, allowing myself to be played, not the violinist.
I dream of a world where we realize we are not solely responsible for our creative successes or failures. A world where we recognize we are instruments for something greater than ourselves. A world where we take our egos out of the equation and merely allow ourselves to be played.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
When I was 20, I studied abroad in London. I interned with a publication that encouraged me to plagiarize. As you can imagine, it wasn’t a good fit. I was miserable and tried everything I could to get out of it – even going so far as lining up another internship, but the study abroad program said no. I still don’t know why. My parents got involved too and that also yielded nothing. It was the first time in my life that I couldn’t make my circumstances better. The first time I had to wait out a crappy situation. It was the first time I experienced a taste of authoritarianism and I hated it. The unfairness of it all outraged me.
The other day I watched a movie, Desert Dancer, and was reminded again, authoritarian regimes continue to exist. Except other people have it far worse. The movie takes place in Iran in 2009 where dancing is forbidden. I know, that’s also the theme of Footloose, but Desert Dancer is no sappy comedy, it’s real life. People are literally beaten and killed for expressing themselves artistically. As an artist myself, I’m horrified. Living in the U.S., I forget there are places in the world where legitimate authoritarian regimes exist. Where other people are not nearly as privileged as I am.
Become a gift.
After my experience in London, I was able to come back to my normal life, to one of privilege and relative ease. But the people in Iran? Or Syria? Or some other country that barely registers in my brain? They are not so lucky.
It is easy for someone like me, a college-educated white woman living in the U.S., to do one of two things: feel guilty for my privilege, or forget other people exist. In conversations with other white people, I see so often we wring our hands and say we feel badly about the things other people have to endure, but what can we do? Or we feel guilty our lives are different because of our privilege. We carry around our white guilt like a suitcase at airport security, always ready to show it to someone else for inspection.
I also see that we forget. We forget other people exist except when a horrific tragedy jerks us from our daily lives. We go about our days wondering if that guy will call or the raise will come through. We get caught up in our own worlds. I’m not saying that’s entirely a bad thing – we must take care of ourselves – but we must also take care of others.
Friends, I don’t want my two options as a person of privilege to be white guilt or amnesia. Neither of those options does anyone any good. I would much rather use my skills to make the world a better place. As a journalist, that means giving a voice to the voiceless. It means telling someone else’s story and broadcasting it far and wide. For you, it may mean healing the sick or planting a community garden. We all have gifts and talents. There’s a quote by Hans Urs von Balthasar that sums this up nicely I think. He said, “What you are is God’s gift to you, what you become is your gift to God.” May we all become gifts not only to God, but to the rest of humanity.
I dream of a world where we use our talents in service of others. A world where we remember other people exist and we do our best to make the world a better place for everyone. A world where we all become gifts.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I am an impatient person. Almost nothing happens fast enough for me. I want things yesterday. Wait for something? No thanks. This is an attitude supported by our society, in my opinion. There’s an underlying belief if something isn’t happening on our timeline we need to move on. I notice in myself and others we don’t want to wait – we want things to happen instantaneously.
I reflected on this during my meditation the other day and what bubbled up is, “What’s the rush?” What’s the rush indeed. Why am I in such a hurry to get where I’m going? Can I let things unfold naturally, and slowly?
My spiritual teacher says, “Suppose, immediately after planting some saplings and seeds, someone digs them up to find out if they have taken root or sprouted. That would not be considered wise.” He also says, “Each action has an equal and opposite reaction provided the three relative factors of time, space, and person remain unchanged. Whatever you do is an actional expression determined by your past actions. Your actions will certainly have reactions, but you may have to wait some time for their expression.”
Can we wait for flowers to bloom?
Again with the waiting. We all know patience is a virtue and things get better with time, like wine and cheese, but I don’t consume either of those things so I don’t connect with that comparison. What helps me is I think of my mother. My mom graduated from medical school when she was 64. That in itself is inspiring, but particularly what I think of is how she opened her own medical practice. In the first year, she barely made anything, she hardly saw any patients. It would have been very easy for her to say, “Oh well, not happening fast enough, time to move on to the next thing.” Instead, she stuck with it. It’s been a couple of years, but she reached a point where she needs to hire someone a few hours a week to help out around her office. It didn’t happen quickly, but she’s finally seeing results.
That also reminds me of a podcast I listened to the other day on fear and creativity by Elizabeth Gilbert. One of her guests was comedian Michael Ian Black who said persistence is the most underrated quality a creative can have and talent is the most overrated. That concept stuck with me like a burr because it says to me if I persist, I can be successful. If I keep putting in the work, eventually it will bear fruit. The timeline is not up to me, but the work sure is.
I’m not saying stick with something if it makes a person miserable. But maybe we’re giving up on things too soon? Maybe if we had a little patience we’d see the results we’re after? There are no hard and fast rules on this unfortunately, but for me, erring on the patient side often seems more beneficial than the action side. Maybe that’s true for others as well.
I dream of a world where we are a little more patient to see results. A world where we’re a little more patient with ourselves and each other, understanding not everything can be hurried. A world where we ask ourselves, “What’s the rush?” and realize often there isn’t one.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.