Tag Archives: Artist’s Way

“Talent is genetic. It’s what you do with it that counts” ~Martin Ritt

“Not only will your answers tell you what you missed in the past; they will tell you what you can be doing, now, to comfort and encourage your artist child. It is not too late, no matter what your ego tells you.” ~Chapter 7- The Artist’s Way

 

I have combined chapter 6 and 7 in order to make up for lost time. Chapter 7 intrigues me for it is recovering a sense of connection. For me, this week will be focused on connecting the inner child, the little Krissy inside of me as well as connecting with my world on a deeper level. Also, interestingly enough, this week will also attempt to connect me to my own jealousy–more of that later. For now. Enjoy an Archeological excercise.

1. As a kid, I missed the chance to learn how to dance, for fear of not doing it properly, thus making a fool of myself.

2.As a kid I lacked confidence when among my peers.

3.As a kid, I could have used more love and support from my family

4.As a kid, I dreamed of being famous, prestigious, and a Nobel Peace Prize recipient

5. As a kid, I wanted a(n) imaginary friend

6. In my house, we never had enough communication and understanding

7. As a kid, I needed more attention, care, understanding, and foundational support

8.I am sorry that I will never again see Reina Nash

9. For years, I have missed and wondered about Florida and the loss of love

10. I beat myself up about the loss of self-control, self-confidence, and good judgment

 

🙂 AND NOW FOR THE POSITIVE! 🙂

1. I have a loyal friend in Jackie Feldman, Justin Stephenson, Mary Ellen Fenton

2. One thing I like about my town is that it is within walking distance to the ocean

3. I think I have nice eyes

4. Writing my morning pages has shown me I can “get down” creative genius

5. I am taking a greater interest in a more creative and spiritual life

6. I believe I am getting better at maintaining my inner peace

7. My artist has started to pay more attention to images, sunlight, and little moments in my life

8. My self-care is frowned upon

9. I feel more confident in my success

10. Possibly, my creativity is going to be my redemption for a life of suffering and my biggest proponent of financial and spiritual success


“I wonder if you can”

This week’s artist’s way lesson has taken a turn for the worst!
Every morning, since the beginning of this adventure, I have started, almost, each and every day with the stream of conscious writing known as “The Morning Pages.” For whatever reason, when I write my to do list, at the top is always MAP. At first, I wasn’t even aware I was doing it. Then one day I realized with stunning clarity why my subconscious brain had done it. Morning Pages equated to MAP,  for this is exactly what morning pages do. They sort of map out the frequencies of your brain, so you can fine tune the radio station to the music of the day. Sorry for the metaphor, I’m just weird like that.

 

This week. This week though. *sigh*

This week, I must incorporate the Night pages.

Now, I am to ask myself what it is that I want. What is the free-flowing river of consciousness streaming at the close of each day. It is a moment to reflect. It is a moment to vent. It is a moment to once more check-in with that little inner artist and say, “Baby girl, tell me what you need.”

 

The trouble is… this is it. This is my night pages for the evening. The dogs are settled in, snuggled as close as they can possibly get without me swatting them away for being a hinderance to my typing. The room is cleaned from my earlier morning activities. My sketchbook is waiting for me, perched upon a box of markers and a box of pencils.  There is also the orbiting thought I had moments before coming inside from my cigarette break and the moonlit back yard. This is it. This is my life.

I wouldn’t want it another way. Sure I wish my room was a little bigger. Absolutely, I wish that there was someone other than two dogs nestling in beside me. Sure, I want this, and I’m praying for that. Yet, for the first time in my life–the first time ever publicly stated–I am at the most blissful state of human intelligence and inner peace. I am home.

I may have dreams that seem far-fetched or not worth believing. I may be the dreamer with her head in the clouds. It doesn’t matter. Hey, Mr. Lennon, I’m not the only one, right?

In the end, it doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t believe. In the end, all that matters is what dream you chose to wake up inside of.

Peace and Love,

Kris

Imagine Peace

 

 

 


“Bruises fade father, but the pain remains the same” ~Christina Aguilera

As part of my reading deprivation, I’ve been listening to music. I’ve danced around the house, cleaning to Katy Perry and writing with the aid of Meditation music. My musical taste is ecclectic to say the least. As part of the excercise, reading deprivation aims to connect us to our own voice. When I listen to music, I do hear the other voice singing in my ear. I can hear the artist. Sometimes what the artist has to say is so powerful, so beautiful, so painful even, so true. I can’t explain why this song means so much to me, to do so woud be to unravel one of the biggest mysteries in my ongoing investigation of my life. But i am okay.

 

If you ever thought Child Abuse was something to take lightly. I can assure you. You are wrong.


“…and most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition…”~ Steve Jobs

I’ve been feeling a little… a little… trumuanized. One of my favorite Jim Carey films of all time is the Truman Show. Sometimes I wonder if on the otherside of the sky i’m looking into there’s not some grand creator hiding behind it, filming everything I do, influencing everyone I meet. This week has completely been a crazy ride in the life of Kristen. It has been strange as anything and it all started because of this week’s task: Reading Deprivation.

At first I thought nothing of it. No books no problem. No facebook? Well, It was about time i took a little vacation from the social networking world. At first it seemed like cake. But then it happened.

There was nothing to distract me from the one thing that had been glaring at me the entire time. She snarled and reared her ugly head. I could not escape into the African jungle with Barbara Kingsolver and the Price girls. I could not lose myself to the pages of my literary magazines, paging through them to see what kind of place I should be heading with my writing. I could not steal a glimpse at a friend’s insight, or personal shortcoming tweet or status. It was just me and the beast.

It was just me. Myself. And I.

I live in a small bungalo on the Eastern End of Long Island. Still recovering from a wallop with life, and trying to train my feet and legs to stand again, I find myself completely isolated with this experiment. If anyone was curious about what the Artist Way is really about. Try it for one week. No reading. No social media. sparing television. This program is designed to be a process.

I can tell you, just from the recent happenings during this experiment and the changes in my life that have been occurring since I’ve started this journey… Miss Cameron is leading me through a process that is not only recovering my artist within me, but also helping me transform into the person my full potential is capable of becoming. It is a miraculous journey. From ugly duckling to swan. From catepilliar to butterfly. My metamorphisis.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary. ~Steve Jobs


“Your worst humiliation is only someone’s momentary entertainment” Karen Crocket

Assignment #2: The Monster Hall of fame.

In sixth grade we would arrange our table desks into groupings of five or six. We were groups, capable of earning points and compliments from our teachers. Each group had a name, like a team, along with a drawing that best represented us. My group team were the Rushmores, complete with a portrait of Mt. Rushmore with our faces instead of dead president’s, drawn by yours truly.

The team was all girls, my best friend for kindergarten, the class popularity queen, the girl with fragile bones that were always broken, and the queen’s shadow. Sometimes I thought I was there by default, not really fitting in with the girls who seemed to be overly obsessed with boys, magazines, flavored chapstick, and what dress they were going to wear to the school dance.

I could care less. I was friends with the boys, at lunch I sat at their table and during recess I played with them on the soccer field, or I sat on the bleachers and cheered them on. Jeans and sneakers were my fashion statement, and I only liked flavored chapsticks if it were something tasty, like Dr. Pepper. That was just who I was and I was okay with it.

One frigid February afternoon, after lunch, the boys set out to take the soccer field. I perched myself on the silver steel bleachers, content to hold my friend, Diego’s keys and cheer him on. I had brought a notebook out with me and busied myself with doodles and sketches. At the sound of the whistle, everyone lined up ready to go back to education and leaving the recess field for the next day’s adventures.

Diego chatted with me as we walked in, taking our usual spots at the front of the line. He had scored a winning goal against his arch nemesis, Kevin, just before the whistle blew and he was riding the emotional high that came along with winning.  I laughed, unzipping my jacket as we walked into our classroom.

My desk was missing from the Rushmore table.

It hit me like a baseball bat to the chest. My desk, alone with my fuzzy purple pen dangling out next to my favorite purple marble notebook. Alone and dead center in the classroom. I hesitated, not understanding how my desk got up and walked away. The rest of the class shuffled in behind me, chatting about various things and putting their things away.

Something white glared from the top of my desk. With what seemed to be an entire roll of scotch tape, a piece of loose-leaf paper was plastered on the top of my desk. I slid into my chair, trying to act as normal as possible, though the whispering snickers started to stab me from behind. All eyes were on me. I was center stage. I prayed the spotlight would dance somewhere else, but it just got brighter as I stared at the written message scrawled upon the immovable parchment.

The Declaration of No More Friendship

We, the former friends of Kristen, hereby decree all friendship and friendly activities be stopped immediately for the following reasons:

I swallowed a rising lump in my throat. The little inner voice that tells you to protect yourself was shouting, telling me to stop reading. But I didn’t listen. I couldn’t, what had I done that was so incredibly wrong that would warrant me a monster deserving a cessation of friendship.My eyes floated down the list.

  • She thinks she is so cool, but she’s not
  • She secretly does sexual things with the boys, that’s why they like her
  • she’s ugly
  • she’s fat
  • she smells like a rabbit cage (i didn’t own a rabbit and i always smelled like the flowery perfume my aunt got me)
  • her family is crazy, and so is she
  • she’s mean to everyone
  • her voice sounds like a cartoon being choked
  • everyone hates her but won’t tell her to her face
  • she thinks she’s so smart, but really she just kisses up
  • her mom is sleeping with Mr. Lisinksi, that’s why she’s student of the month
  • she’s so ugly her own family doesn’t even want her
  • *insert a long list of other insults*

My ego, my heart, my confidence shattered and fell to the ground around me. The entire class was whispering to one another now. Salt water began to sting my eye lids, but I blinked it away before a monsoon took control of my face. I wouldn’t let them see me cry. I wouldn’t let them see me hurt. The little voice inside tried to call out to me again, telling me that none of these things were true. Once again it was ignored as my eyes floated down to the signatures lining the bottom of the page. All of the Rushmores signed it, and a few others who i considered to be friends in other classes.

The teacher floated into the room, smiling and bubbly as always. Her face changed as soon as she saw me and my castaway island. The girls from the Perfect Peaches asked me if I wanted to join their table. I moved, simply to escape the forced solitude, grateful but nevertheless aware to the pity staring out of their eyes. The teacher walked to my desk and eyed the declaration of independence so securely fastened to my desk. She asked me if I was okay. And I nodded, pulling out my notebook quickly and covering the horrid piece of paper. Wanting once again the spotlight to shift its burning focus.

She nodded and began her class, eyeing the girls, and taking my cue that discussion of the matter best be mute.

To Be Continued…


“My Outer Child is Holding my Inner Child Hostage”

“Remember, your artist is a child. Find and protect that child. Learning to let yourself create is like learning to walk. The artist child must begin by crawling. Baby steps will follow and there will be falls–yecchy first paintings, beginning films that will look like unedited home movies, first poems that would shame a greeting card.” ~ The Artist’s Way – pg 44

I’ve already discovered that the best of my creative abilities come from the remembrance of my inner child–the adventurous and curious child of my earlier youth– as my earlier post would indicate. Walking along this journey I have come to realize to realize that my inner child has suffered many blows and for a while was hiding in the corner of the creative crevice in my mind. I am taking steps to protect and love that child. I take her to empty rooms in my mind and let her explore. I treat her to long walks, and silent moments in nature. I let her play with my niece and nephew, allowing her imagination to take reign and revel in the laughter of the my niece and nephew’s laughter. I push her to be strong. I tell her continually how much I love her, reminding her how beautiful she really is.

We all have that inner child within us. It is the excitement we experience when we see a cool new toy that we wished we had growing up. It is the joy of coloring in a coloring book and the smell of crayons, even though we are “too” old to do so.  When we hurt, when we are scared, our inner child is begging for relief, for security, for protection. It makes me wonder how many of us are truly in tuned with the inner child.

Children are naturally happy. Their imagination is their greatest asset in guarding them from the demons of the adult world. Children view the world with wonder. New toys, the rain, the first snowfall ignites a fire inside of them. Oh if only we could taste that snowflake on our tongues!

My outer child is holding my inner-child hostage” ~Anonymous

So I ask you… are you holding your inner-child hostage? Or do you allow him or her to explore the world around them with wonder, magic, and love?

Peace,

Kris


“…armed with nothing but their own vision.”

Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps, down new roads, armed with nothing but their own vision. ~ Ayn Rand

I am taking the first step. I have a vision, a dream that I must chase, catch up to, and run along with. Every week you can expect new material. Different assignments given to me from the Artist’s Way. Journey with me?

Click for Info

Today’s Assignment is a prompt. A thank you letter to someone who has helped you along your creative way. Let me know what you think of my choice!

Hope you enjoy!

Peace, Kris


“Every child is an artist. The Problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” Pablo Picaso

What a week! I spent most of the week at my sister’s house, helping around the house (folding laundry, playing/babysitting the niece and nephew, and cleaning up at the end of the night). It was a nice reprieve and kept my mind a little occupied and away from negative thinking that I am normally prone to. It also gave me a little time to flex my creative muscles as I played with the kids. Thier imaginations are strong and we easily get carried away into a world of make believe. I absolutely love it!

At the end of the week I made a trip out to the nearest book store and picked up a few reading materials. I recently finished Breakfast with Buddha, by Roland Merullo. It was a fantastic book with wonderful insight and many laugh out loud moments. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to know what an everyday joe schmo can do to incorporate a spiritual life to their every day way of life.

At the book store I picked up Me Talk Pretty One Day, by Greg Sedaris. Can’t wait to start it. I also picked up The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron. It is a 12 week program to unleash the creative spirit and turning creativity into a spiritual practice. It was recommended to me by someone who has ultimately changed my life for the better. Dina, if you’re reading, thank you.

This week’s assignment is Recovering a sense of safety. In addition to the weekly artist’s date and daily Morning Pages, the focus is to acknowledge the little nagging inner censor and identifying where, when, and by whom the seeds of this irksome voice were planted. Like weeds, we want to pull the voice out at its root and open up the creative passageways and clear the blockage. I am hopeful and take the assignment seriously.

I will let you know how it goes!

As always thank you for stopping by!
Peace,
Kris