Nothing More to Say

8x10 oil

Wussing-out under the incessant power of resistance to doing my artistic work, I was recently distracted by an article I wrote for the Oregon English Journal in 2017. Its title was, “If I Were a Writing Teacher.”

After the first few paragraphs, I put the article down and gazed out over the stormy-gray, overcast lake framed in my widow. Wow, I thought, amazed at the cosmic guidance so often placed in my hands. What made me thumb through my past to pick up this article? It was like there was this benevolent, unseen art mentor somewhere out there, gently nudging me along, saying “Keep going,” and smiling at me in the way monks do.

This article was me … talking to me.

It started off like this:

(If I were a writing teacher) the first thing I would do is have a conversation around this thought:

You are here in this life to soar.

You were not born to lose.

No one is born to lose.

Losing is a choice.

As is soaring.

You do your art or you don’t

It’s a choice.

That belief is fundamental to every successful person, especially those of us in the arts, where one’s elf-exposure is great. You are here to share your gifts. That’s what artists do, and to do that you have to believe in yourself and in your mission. And why not? You are amazing. We are all amazing. Look at your hand and make your fingers move.

They move, right?

How the heck?

That’s just flat out miraculous in every way. And that’s just fingers!

You are a magnificent creation. You have an imagination. You have emotions. You have a body and a spirit that animates it. You have been given the gift of free will, and you are here to honor it all, to soar!

Know it.

See it.

Believe it.

I can, I will. That’s your mantra from here on out.

That’s where we start.

Reading just that much made me feel as if there were a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, bud. Come on. You have work to do. Get back over to your easel.”

Yeah. Sure. All right, I’m going.

On the way I look up at the sign I’ve taped to the wall that says: “You are not here to be mediocre.”

I don’t think I can get much more wussy than I already am. I mean, I sometimes seem to need signs, mantras, posters, articles, books, sticky notes, alarms, bells, whistles, a handful of friends and a trusted accountability partner to nudge me back to work. It’s cyclical. Inspired, uninspired. On fire, zapped out. Motivated, unmotivated.

I look at my hand and move my fingers.

Dang! It’s true. They move. Amazing, truly amazing. My fingers, my hand, my body, my mind … it’s all a freaking miracle! I’m here. I’m alive. Why? I have not one single rock-solid clue. But there has to be a reason. A good reason.

Honor it. Do the work. You are not here to be mediocre.

There is nothing more to say.