Category — creativity

In Latvian my name is Suzena Paivere.

Good luck all you Latvian lovers!

Everyone should watch this everyday.

Alex Grey is a visionary artist who makes art that shows you who you are. He and his wife Allyson opened The Chapel of Sacred Mirrors in 2004 to house his most extraordinary works and present them in a sacred environment. It’s an extraordinary place and it’s packing up and moving from NYC to Upstate in December, 2008. So go see it while you can! It’s at 530 W 27th (between 10th & 11th).

I can write to the ambient noise of a coffee shop, but not to music.

I prefer to write when other people are sleeping.

I like to write on holidays like Christmas and the 4th of July. Something about feeling that the rest of the world is otherwise engaged helps me.

Hard as I try, I cannot, cannot, CANNOT write according to a routine. God, I wish it were that easy. Every day is different and after more than 7 years of trying, I have just come to accept this. Although it’s a giant pain in the buttinski.

My attention works on a push-pull basis. I have to pay attention to my writing in short spurts, toward and away, toward and away. Looks like this: 42 minutes writing, check e-mail, make tea, 37 minutes writing, watch What Not to Wear, read something inspiring, write 91 minutes, catch up with Twitter pals, write 9 minutes, etc, etc. I don’t write in discrete segments, it seems to mix in throughout the day instead.

No, I don’t have ADD.  My attention span circles its object, it doesn’t target it. It just doesn’t work in a straight line. That’s the way it is. I accept me the way I am. Finally.

Trying to write is like trying to get a virgin to sleep with you. “It’s okay baby. I love you now. I’ll love you tomorrow. It’s gonna be great. Don’t think about it so much. Now get over here.”

Even if I think I have nothing to say, if I just write one sentence, I can usually write one more. And then another. Can’t think too far ahead.

Every few hours, I do a handstand. (But not in Starbucks.)

Deadlines invite the muse, open-ended opportunity does not.

Sometimes I like to work at a desk, sometimes on the couch, sometimes in bed.

If I start writing the moment I wake up, things go well. If I do anything first (check email, kiss my husband good morning, tweet) it’s not so good.

When I’m around people too much, I can’t write. When I’m too isolated, I can’t write. Not too close, not too far. A magical dividing line that is constantly moving.

When I can’t think of anything to write, I read until the moment an inspiration hits and then I go straight to the page. Immediately. If I even stop to drink a sip of water, it disappears.

When I read what I’ve written and go, “Who wrote that? I don’t remember knowing that,” I know I’ve written something good.

Click here for this 30-minute interview on Writing Spirit Resources website. Enjoy!

This from Philip Pullman, author of “His Dark Materials” trilogy, which I love. To read the whole interview, click here.

Thank you, Mr. Pullman. Very clear and wonderful. I especially like this: Then I read it all again and think it’s horrible, and get very depressed. That’s one of the things you have to put up with.

I hear that.

What is a typical day like for you? I’ll get up at about half past seven and take my wife a cup of tea, and have my breakfast at the kitchen table reading the paper. I’ll sit down at my desk at about half past nine and work until it’s time for lunch, with a break for coffee half way through. If I’m lucky I’ll have written three pages by then, and I can fool about with my power tools in the afternoon. If not, it’s back to the desk until the three pages are covered. I write with a ballpoint pen on A4 sized narrow-lined paper. The paper has got to have a grey or blue margin and two holes. I only write on one side, and when I’ve got to the bottom of the last page, I finish the sentence (or write one more) at the top of the next, so that the paper I look at each morning isn’t blank. It’s already beaten. That number of pages amounts, in my writing, to about 1100 words. When I’ve finished a story I’ll type it all on to the computer, editing as I go. Then I read it all again and think it’s horrible, and get very depressed. That’s one of the things you have to put up with. Eventually, after a lot of fiddling, it’s sort of all right, but the best I can do; and that’s when I send it off to the publisher.

So I can’t believe it, but I’m halfway through my sojourn in the clouds. I feel so sad and happy about this. Of course, almost nothing turned out the way I thought it would, but it has been a momentous time nonetheless. I’m still not sure why. Let me see if I can recount some possibilities.

From a spiritual practice perspective, it’s been quite revealing. Since I was on a writers’ retreat before coming here, I’d already had seven days of settling into a retreat vibe before I got here. That’s no small thing. To have come from the hustle-bustle of life into this sanctuary of clouds and loneliness would have felt much more abrupt. It’s been amazing, a gift, stunning, to slow down with my practice and really look at it.

I’ve been doing a lot reading, specifically about the practice I do. For every practice, there is a view. Knowing the correct view (context, philosophy), obviously, makes the practice make sense. When you have to guess about the view, it’s like studying an unnamed language. You might master it, but have no idea where or why to use it. So this meditation retreat has been about connecting with view. And practice, of course. Because spending all your time on view without practicing is just a conceptual enterprise. And practicing without considering the view makes for a bit of a willy-nilly experience.

And during this time, I’ve been able to hear talks by my teacher, Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche. He sheds light on my practice like the sun striking the ocean.

On the writing tip, it’s been up and down. But, again, a profound and amazing gift to be able to spend this much time, hour after hour, day after day, with the book I’m trying to write. This close focus creates equal parts clarity and confusion. The clarity comes from having time and, most of all, mental space, to consider what I’m trying to say. The confusion comes from looking so closely at what I’m doing. It’s like staring at a painting so long that the image turns into a bunch of dots. You can’t see what it is anymore. So staying with this process of intermittent bouts with clarity and confusion has been very interesting. Scary. And also wonderful. Like today, for example. I sat down to work in the late morning and suddenly it was 3PM. It’s amazing when that happens with writing. The time disappearing and all.

If it’s of interest, here is the introduction to the book, “The Wisdom of a Broken Heart.” As it stands now. Subject to change at any moment. Any comments or suggestion would be wildly appreciated.

When I arrived, I had written about 20,000 words and I knew that the introduction was probably okay, but the rest was kind of like gibberish. Words without a view. Many lovely paragraphs of useful, relevant information, but no sense from one section to the next.

This seems to happens to me when working on a book. I gather a pile of relevant stories, insights, and suggestions and just sort of slop them together. Each one makes sense on its own, but they don’t make sense all together. So this is a big problem. Then I have to stop writing and attempt to impose structure. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t come up with structure in advance. So I’m a little used to this, but it’s no less terrifying to be up against a book deadline with a bunch of words that may mean you’re well on your way OR that you’ve accumulated a bunch of crapola.

But in the last week, structure has sort of started to come and that’s where I am now. I’m up to about 35,000 words and have decided that the order they were in was not the right order. So I’m in the midst of deconstructing the manuscript, fingers massively crossed. I’m still not sure it’s going to work and I won’t know until I’ve finished taking it apart and putting it back together again. A few days ago, I printed the whole thing out and cut it into paragraphs. I stapled together paragraphs that had to go together (that were telling a particular story, for example). Then I laid all the stapled together pieces on the floor and labeled them with the heading of where I thought they should now go. Fortunately, I had some feline assistance.

I don’t know where it’s all going to end up, but this has been the most wonderful writing experience of my life. Difficult, yes. Very. Much doubt and sadness at my own lack of understanding. But I’ve had little whiffs of the muse, of something being written through me and not by me. This is the best one can ever, ever hope for.

May it be of benefit. For goodness sake, already.

This is the 7th day of writing/meditation retreat. Things are beginning to get interesting.

Last night, I drove the 10 miles to Shambhala Mountain Center to hear Sakyong Mipham give a talk and in-depth meditation instruction. It was wonderful to see him, beyond wonderful, indescribable. Anyone who has had the great fortune to find a spiritual teacher, the teacher for them, knows what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, it’s very hard to say what it feels like. Although there were several hundred people at last night’s talk, I felt that he was speaking to me personally; his teaching reverberated with some aspect of my practice, my mind, my concerns. It has nothing to do with making you feel happy. It’s more like a kind of profound intimacy, like someone talking with you from within your own mind and moving with or away from all the subtle shifts, turns, and gradations that arise. It is so private.

I also saw many, many friends from the noble Shambhala sangha, which was lovely but also kind of heartbreaking. I long to be with them, to practice intensely and experience the joy of enlightened society that is created under such circumstances. I can drop in for various things, but it isn’t the same and so I felt very lonely.

Speaking of lonely. Today, like the majority of the past week, I have been completely alone. I’m in a beautiful house, beyond the beyond of lovely. Spectacular.

The house has every conceivable comfort. The phrase “well appointed” comes to mind. It is a house of devoted practitioners and I can feel their dignity and genuineness in every corner. The house is designed to relate to the mountain range it looks out on. In all the main areas of the house—bedroom, living room, kitchen, dining room, you look out onto extraordinary spaciousness. If you could see what I’m looking at right now… well, actually you can. See photo of right now:

Wherever I settle myself, I’m able to see how the mountains morph throughout the day, responding to sunshine and clouds, darkness and light. Yet they remain implacable. Would that we could all be this equanimous, this inscrutable; responsive yet utterly planted.

The first few days, I took pictures of everything. Every room, every vista, every time of day. I realize now that I was trying to have a conversation, trying to bring someone in, show someone (Duncan, my parents, my girlfriends) where I was so I wouldn’t be so alone. When I’m home, I crave solitude. But the first thing I did was try to establish conversation. I see that I’m scared to be completely alone. I don’t understand much outside of city living and so it intimidates me to walk too far from the house. This makes me sad. I’m scared of the dark and I really don’t know why. As the sun sets, like it is doing now, I feel my loneliness and fear rise. What am I afraid of? Again, I do not know.

There is no phone here. I miss talking to Duncan so much. I miss how he makes me feel safe. Without him, I’m not sure how to do it for myself.

I spend all day doing one of three things: practicing meditation and studying texts that relate to my practice; working on my book, “The Wisdom of a Broken Heart,” which is due in October; or fussing. I’ve been spending a lot of time fussing. I sit down to read and then think I should write. I start to write but have nothing to say. I fix myself something to eat but then I’m not hungry. I check e-mail and then feel a longing to be working on the book. I return to the manuscript and find that it says nothing, absolutely nothing. Then, finally, at some point, hopefully at least once in a day, all that drops away and I find my voice, I find that I do have something to say.

Practicing meditation has been very deep. I spent the week before coming here teaching a retreat so I had already been acculturating to a retreat pace, sitting for short periods throughout those seven days. I came home for 36 hours before leaving for NYC for one night where I participated in a “talk back” after a theatrical performance of a play called “The Perfect Couple.” If you’ve never heard of a talk back (I hadn’t), it’s when people with something to say about the play are on stage afterward to dialog with each other and with the audience. I was one of three authors and our conversation was moderated by the two completely awesome authors of “The Nanny Diaries” and did I ever love them. Plus it was really fun to talk to the audience about relationships. For that night, I stayed at the apartment of one of the producers who was also a producer on some John Waters’ shows based on his movies, like “Cry Baby” and “Hairspray,” I believe. Her assistant let me into this lovely apartment on Union Square right near where I used to live at 10th and University. The producer and I never even met. She came in late and I had a 5:30 AM car to the airport to fly to Denver. So that was a completely urban blip between these two retreats. I felt totally comfortable walking all over downtown Manhattan and staying in a stranger’s apartment on Broadway but I feel kind of stiff and shut down in the house of friends, in the middle of the mountains. Once when I told a friend of my fears of being alone in the country, he said, “you’ve got it reversed. You should be afraid in NYC and feel safe here.” Well it doesn’t work that way for me.

Anyway, between the solitude, the beauty, receiving teachings from Sakyong Mipham, trying to grasp the nature of heartbreak, and a lot of meditation practice, I feel so raw. My responses are unpredictable. Sudden things arise in my mind that make me cry or laugh, but mostly cry. I could try to give some examples, but they would be meaningless to anyone but me, to whom they are quite meaningful, yet also completely ephemeral. The instruction under such circumstances is just this: relax. But relaxing doesn’t mean spacing out or distracting yourself with Project Runway reruns, or even the new season, which started last night but who’s counting. It means allowing what arises to arise, and to continue allowing and allowing, without knowing what it means, where it’s going, or how it will end. All by yourself. It is scary and noble at the same time.

But wait. I’m not alone. I have a kitty cat for company. Here he is, assisting me in the writing process.

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