Sourced by Grace – Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED Talk on Creative Genius

Immersed in a 24/7 culture that expects everything to be ready and available, anytime, anywhere, I watch my assumptions.

See that with my own creative life, I can set an expectation that I am the engine behind the production line, pumping out countless goods. And they better be good. Manufactured to perfection. Ever-ready to be consumed and distributed. I am an artist and my job is to produce.

Or is it?

I watch these unrealistic expectations squeeze all life force from the creative process. Rid every bit of magic from the experience of shaping something from nothing. It’s a delicate dance, not one that will fit within the confines of automation, emerging on demand.

Yesterday I was privy to a fascinating discussion on this topic by Elizabeth Gilbert (author of the acclaimed book, “Eat, Pray, Love”, among others). In her talk she reconsiders the source from which our creative well springs (and she suggests that each of us can tap this – not just “artists”).

The entire 18 minute “TED Talk” is great (I’ve posted it below) but I was certainly struck by her sharing of the dancer who touches Grace, and then lands back down into a very certain humanness once again:

“…O.K. — centuries ago in the deserts of North Africa, people used to gather for these moonlight dances of sacred dance and music that would go on for hours and hours, until dawn. And they were always magnificent, because the dancers were professionals and they were terrific, right? But every once in a while, very rarely, something would happen, and one of these performers would actually become transcendent. And I know you know what I’m talking about, because I know you’ve all seen, at some point in your life, a performance like this. It was like time would stop, and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal and he wasn’t doing anything different than he had ever done, 1,000 nights before, but everything would align. And all of a sudden, he would no longer appear to be merely human. He would be lit from within, and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.

And when this happened, back then, people knew it for what it was, you know, they called it by its name. They would put their hands together and they would start to chant, “Allah, Allah, Allah, God, God, God.” That’s God, you know. Curious historical footnote — when the Moors invaded southern Spain, they took this custom with them and the pronunciation changed over the centuries from “Allah, Allah, Allah,” to “Ole, ole, ole,” which you still hear in bullfights and in flamenco dances. In Spain, when a performer has done something impossible and magic, “Allah, ole, ole, Allah, magnificent, bravo,” incomprehensible, there it is — a glimpse of God. Which is great, because we need that.

But, the tricky bit comes the next morning, for the dancer himself, when he wakes up and discovers that it’s Tuesday at 11 a.m., and he’s no longer a glimpse of God. He’s just an aging mortal with really bad knees, and maybe he’s never going to ascend to that height again. And maybe nobody will ever chant God’s name again as he spins, and what is he then to do with the rest of his life? This is hard. This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn’t have to be quite so full of anguish if you never happened to believe, in the first place, that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believed that they were on loan to you from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you’re finished, with somebody else. And, you know, if we think about it this way it starts to change everything.

This is how I’ve started to think, and this is certainly how I’ve been thinking in the last few months as I’ve been working on the book that will soon be published, as the dangerously, frighteningly over-anticipated follow up to my freakish success.

And what I have to, sort of keep telling myself when I get really psyched out about that, is, don’t be afraid. Don’t be daunted. Just do your job. Continue to show up for your piece of it, whatever that might be. If your job is to dance, do your dance. If the divine, cockeyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpsed, for just one moment through your efforts, then “Ole!” And if not, do your dance anyhow. And “Ole!” to you, nonetheless. I believe this and I feel that we must teach it. “Ole!” to you, nonetheless, just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.”

So, Ole! to you, for showing up to share in this journey – this following of the Thread here in these Archive posts. Some rare days, I may be graced by the Muse. Others, it is just an exercise in humble dedication to the process of showing up to the page.

May we all keep our appointment with this present moment. Open to our imaginations. Let go of expectations. Watch Grace unfurl, however fleeting. Celebrate the magic when it comes.

Dwelling with The Mothers of the World

Over the weekend was a pivotal parental let-go.

I guided eight and a half-year old Jeb through a solo sojourn. His first real walk alone. A milestone, not unlike that pinnacle moment years ago, when he released my finger and began a precarious and tubby toddle away from me.

“Yeah, just walk with me to that mango tree and then you can turn around,” he suggests.

He’s got his back pack on and our rubber slippers are flip-flopping, ankle-deep in grass, along our country road. Jeb’s going to his dad’s house which is about a third of a mile away from where we live. It’s his first unaccompanied trek.

“Ok, this is good,” he says as we approach the big tree. It’s a hug and a kiss and a modern, motherly reminder from me to “text me when you get there, ok?”

As the words come from my mouth, I recognize that parental predecessors have never had this technological assurance. But this back up doesn’t make the space between farewell and my cell phone display screen any less tenuous.

“Ok, love you…” he says as he waves and walks on, beaming in this moment of flight and freedom.

We move in opposite directions, then catch each other both looking back over our shoulders at one another. More waves are exchanged, then we move further on. Another backward glance and we’re both smiling to see each other peeking back again.

This goes on, repeatedly, as we make our way in opposite directions.

A few steps further away, look back, smile, wave. A few more steps away.

Finally, there is a curve in the road that we both know will permanently put us out of sight of one another. He is distant but I can hear him.

“Ok, mom, bye!”

And just like that, a shared, final gesture of parting and he rounds out and away from my view.

I know Jeb’s Dad is waiting to receive him on the other side. He, too, has been given the request to text me as soon as Jeb makes it there (no cell reception at his house, only text messages can come through). It’s not that I’m worried, just wanting confirmation.

So two hours later and three of my sent messages (something along the lines of “please help a mother rest assured that our boy made it alright”) I’ve settled into the deepest let go. The one countless mothers have done long before cell phones. Trusting that no news is good news. Rationalizing that if Jeb wouldn’t have made it, his father would have contacted me by now, wondering where he was. That they must be having so much fun, they just forgot.

Not extremely anxious, just not completely settled, I get to sit in the company of the Mothers of the World. Surrender to the space of no guarantees. Dwell within the uncertainty that links us across the ages.

No matter how many technological tools offer instant answers, there will never be a definitive promise. A mother will always be required to release her child back into the world.

And in the case of this mother (as in, me), she didn’t get that little reassurance until sunset, when her cell phone sounded and the words, “I’m ok” came across her screen.

Mother’s intuition knew this all along. She just got to let go and rely on it.

photo courtesy of llamnunds