“Every child is an artist. The Challenge is how to remain an artist when we grow up.” – Pablo Picasso
It’s raining. Not the kind of rain with thunderous crescendos, but a slow and steady rain, gently tapping on the fabric above my head. I’m sitting at a small table on the terrace of a cafe in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood. The sound of car tires on a wet road reminds me of breaking waves on a beach, coming and going in a steady cadence. Lightbulbs are dangling from the tent rafters above my head — tiny shimmers of orange in an otherwise gray day. Nothing extraordinary is happening. Still, I feel a sense of joy, sitting here quietly typing to the rhythm of gentle instrumental music. I am proud of myself.
Months ago I would’ve revolted at this type of boredom. I would’ve felt frustrated at the idea of doing nothing productive, nothing exciting. To sit here and notice things, to enjoy the beauty of falling rain, to write whatever I want, whenever I want — why would I do that? There are millions of far more exciting things I could be doing. I could watch a movie or a new show, or spend a couple hours learning something on YouTube. Or I could sit here and write for some sort of objective, like amassing a following or eventually getting a monetary reward for my efforts. But, as I sit here watching the world revolve around me, I know that voice that always told me the present wasn’t good enough was just a part of the disease.
Truth is, I’d been sick for a long time. It was a subtle, malevolent disease. I hardly noticed it and I still don’t know what to call it. Maybe mindscatter is a good name. Hmmm… I had a bad case of mindscatter. Even that sounds oversimplified. Call it what you will, I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. I’m not even sure where I caught it. Maybe on the internet. Maybe on TV. Maybe that kid who called me a loser in pre-school gave it to me. At first, the disease showed few physical symptoms so it’s hard to say when or how it started. But, like all diseases, it progressed.
Physically, I was the picture of health, but on the inside, I was being eaten alive by a hungry wolf. My inner artist, my creative energy, my ability to find beauty in simple things, to connect with the people I love, to experience lasting joy — all these parts of me were all dying by the frothing, blood-soaked teeth of the wolf. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t even like myself. I could hardly feel anything. I was easily irritated, cynical, negative… on a path to nowhere good.
I think writing saved me. Excuse the cliche. But I think it did. God is a creative force. I must have caught her attention when I tried to bare my soul on paper, because she reached out her divine hand and pulled me out of the bloody water just long enough to see clearly. What I mean is, at some point a few years ago, I realized I want to be a writer (whatever that means). Writing is one of the few things, outside of my relationship with the people I love, that gives me purpose. But I was too sick to write. I mean, I put together some nice poems here and there. I wrote some decent essays. But these were more like random flourishes between the burning fever. I wrote when the hungry wolf wasn’t looking. I couldn’t think or feel like an artist. I wasn’t living a creative life.
I was writing for the wrong reasons. I wanted some sort of reward. I wanted to gain something from my writing. I wrote about a lot of shit I didn’t care about. I thought people would want to read those sorts of things. I thought about how to build a following. I ruthlessly scrutinized everything I created. And just like that, even my purest act of creation, my life’s purpose, started to feed the disease. The mindscatter progressed. The wolf had the part of me that mattered most in its jaws — my creativity.
I wrote a poem last year in a fit of grief. Someone I love died and the words just poured out of me. There was nothing I could do — nothing the wolf could do, either. Something about putting my deepest emotions into a piece of art felt like caressing the skin of God. For a brief moment, I could see myself clearly. I wasn’t just a writer. I was a creator — an artist. But also, I could, for the first time, see how sick I was — how much of a non-artist I had become. I wasn’t me anymore.
I was still sick. But I could see the disease and notice the symptoms. I talked about it. I asked for help. I started looking for ways to heal. And, at the same time, I started to develop a clear vision for what and how I wanted to create. My inner artist started speaking to me again, after I apologized profusely for letting him get mauled by the wolf over and over again. He became my guide to healing.
The first step was to protect myself from infections. I couldn’t risk contacting the mindscatter bacteria. At first this felt impossible. We live in a hyper-stimulating, hyper-sexualized, content-addicted culture. Social media, television, streaming, the internet, all of these things are destructive forces that feed the disease — and they all live in our pockets.
I had to curate my life like an artist. So I developed an extremely rigid filter and became very selective of what I let pass through. I consumed media like an artist, not like an addict. That meant eliminating social media (yes, it is possible to live without it) and other dark parts of the internet that scatter the mind. I started reading again and following any path that my curiosity led me to, from Japanese literature to Russian cinema. My notebook filled up with thousands of random thoughts and connected ideas and prayers. And most importantly, I started to hear the voice of God in everyday life. Little by little, I was healing, reconnecting with that divine creative force I had lost touch with as a child. But of course, it was, and still is, a long road.
Creativity is a way of life. Healing is a way of life. You may have noticed the cadence of this blog has slowed down in recent months. That’s because my writing has changed. Of course, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with seeking monetary rewards or success with writing or other forms of art. I also hope to accomplish that one day. But I’m not there yet. I have only recently reconnected with my inner artist. I abandoned him many years ago when we were just kids. We’re only now relearning how to walk and getting to know each other. I want to use this blog to share my ideas and connect with people through these essays. But I also need to give my inner artist space to find himself, to experiment, to grow on his own.
I write every day, mostly in the early morning before the sunrise. Not for some sort of reward or external validation, but as a creative offering — as nourishment to my inner artist. The art I create in silence is not ready to be shared. It is still only a prayer that I pray everyday. Nonetheless, in this diseased and chaotic world, the act of creation is life-saving medicine.
Maybe the disease is called mindscatter. Maybe it’s called seeking. That’s the main symptom after all. Always seeking, always looking for pleasure, distraction, something better. Never content with the present moment.
“Grass ain’t always greener; honey ain’t no sweeter on the other side.” - Willow Avalon, Honey Ain’t No Sweeter
Now I know that it’s best not to seek. Even if I am seeking beauty, creative energy, love, contact with God. All these things are already looking for me. The point is to build a nest. That metaphor doesn’t stick perfectly, but nonetheless I like the sentiment. Build a nest. That means cultivating and curating your life in a way that opens you up. If you are looking for creative inspiration, do not seek it. Build your life to allow space for boredom, quiet time, and beauty to enter. The goal is not to find anything. But to always be ready to be found.
“I am a channel for God’s creative energy.” - Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way
Any goal I have set for myself is already accomplished. I only need to receive it and follow the divine instructions. But to do that, I need to be open to it and be ready to listen. Listening requires expanded awareness. Free from distractions. Free from seeking.
Still, remission can be fragile if I’m not careful. The ever-present wolf is lurking, waiting for me to forget who I am — a creative force. Healing isn’t something I can seek. It’s a daily battle, a way of being. Like the consistent watering of a garden, I bow to that divine creative energy and restore my inner artist every day. All this so I can sit in stillness and connect. So I can feel joy from listening to the rain fall, or laughing with someone I love, or reading by lamplight in the early morning, or going for a long walk with good music. All this so life becomes beautiful again.
Creation is an act of healing. Healing is a way of life.