That’s it, You’re Grounded

rain

As my Kind Readers know, my good CPT habits have been challenged lately. I’ve been roughing it in Rough Draft Country, where the white noise in my head has been falling steadily into waist-deep snow between me and any finished piece of writing. That’s something stress does, because I’m one of those people who mentally chews on it, which leaves me wearily stranded far away from my better habits. But sometimes our own Deeper Currents float us back towards our Creative Selves, and I recently bumped into a shore.

I had some time to spend between a meeting and teaching, so I went to a downtown coffeehouse I hadn’t visited in a while. Finding an armchair free, I took out a lined pad I hadn’t used all summer to do some class prep, and a couple of folded sheets slipped out. One contained some writing done in the spring, months before, the last time I sat in that particular coffee place, tucked away and forgotten. Yeah, I know, but it did happen. I had noted The Cure song playing that day, taking me back to college-adjacent years:

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you

I wrote that his sweetish, melancholy rasp blended perfectly with gray steel, warm smells, and the wide plate-glass view of Boston rain falling on a worn side street.

I read it with strange pleasure those months later, on another rainy day, looking at the same view. Bruce was inviting me to The Rising in the background, and that indeed fit the moment. Yeah, I know. An almost uncomfortable feeling of comfort settled on me, and I felt grounded, with a foothold again in my Working CPT self, swept by rain and habit into this déjà vu. You have whatever sparks you, and for me, an unexpected connection works like champagne bubbles up the nose: sudden, itchy, delightful. A forgotten creative day suddenly falls into another and lands on the same floor. I get a flash of Why it would be Awesome to teach Jane Eyre, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and The Haunting of Hill House in the same course: whoa! I meet a  gentle, aura-exuding organist at the church where I work, and suddenly there’s Sherlock Holmes explaining that his new client is NOT a typist as he first thought because of the shape of her fingers; she has an ethereal look, so she must be a musician. And I just met the lady. I realize I can blog about my morning walks framed by a French Buddhist monk’s photography in Asia.

When these connections hit me, I feel obliged to and pressured by my own working mind, but that one in the coffeehouse was soothing and asked nothing back. The CPT Me felt fairly present, as it slipped out of hiding in an embarrassingly clichéd way. But there it is. Yeah, I know, but a CPT can sometimes use a Little Pat on the back from herself, a little reassurance in a brimming-over world.

Morris Dancing

m dance

 

“Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

Nineteenth-century artist and designer William Morris summed up a lot of his Life’s Work with this excellent piece of advice that has been steering me forward. The part of my brain that stores and puts together words has seemed  interested lately in trying out the No-Time Creative life.  My writing went the route of the Massachusetts drought, so I’ve been obsessively exploring anything creative that makes me feel woken up. (I know, I know. Write. Anyway. I’ve been stressed. I’m human.) I denuded the Boston Public Library of their style books on the funky blogger/found objects/simple living end of the spectrum. They taught me about color, scale, scaling back, and about my own style, which seems to involve boho peaks that flow easily into Zen-simple troughs and back again.

By the way, there are wonderful books and blogs out there! It delighted me to spot the same room in two books, once in a chapter on spare, clean-lined bohemian style and once in a book that describes the room as “maxed out.” Isn’t that great? Dear homeowners Emily and Adam: your driftwood lighting fixture rocks my soul. Can I hang out with you?

The thing is, I live in a Fairly Tiny apartment. Not the tiniest, but small enough to make the Tiny House lifestyle a good way to go. So, in trying to be at least creative with my hands, and hoping for a new atmosphere that would coax my Word Brain out of hiding, I took on Mr. Morris and his advice. Was everything around me where I live and mostly write useful and/or beautiful? Yeah, stop laughing. The question invited me to look at things I don’t even usually see anymore, and that felt Creative, especially exploring What I Find Beautiful.

It became clear that I possess much that has neither of those qualities.  And a lot of the non-beautiful is stuff of which I DO have beautiful examples. Too many coffee mugs, Dear Ones. Too many stones, shells, odd bits of furniture, plates, old clothes…the list goes on. I enjoy thrifting and beach-combing, but it’s good to practice Morris dancing, too. At the risk of this post becoming How I Edited My Mug Collection to Avoid Writing, I want to share how surprised I was by the clutter I just let become part of my habitat. It was enjoyable to pack mugs away for the charity shop. It was an aesthetic experience to dump a bowl of shells onto a towel and look at each of them, understanding what I find really beautiful, and putting only those back. The bowl is now something I see again. In the dull, stressed, humid world of this August, that’s something I appreciate.

I’ve been looking at many photos of tiny houses, small spaces, funky decor, and Zen as Habitat Principle, seeking the levels that make me feel at ease. What is the balance of simplicity/spaciousness and bohemian verve that welcomes a quiet spirit trying to have a productive CPT Life, but also welcomes a blue and purple, open-mouthed fish sculpture? The style authors and bloggers who say that one’s environment is a Work in Progress, thus setting it firmly into the Realm of Practice, make me smile. It’s been a creative, useful experience, and I recommend it for new perspectives and new inspiration. And anyone who can give me a lift to the thrift store with all this stuff, lunch is on me.