After Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth’ Gilbert’s
second book bombed, she said it was alright. She went back home.
HOME to her was
not her parent’s farm, nor the house she lives in; it was doing what she loves.
For her, it is
writing.
Do you have a HOME?
My friend in
San Diego has a studio built outside her house and a humongous kiln beside it. While
potting, she’s home.
Mrs. Chiropractor
in Hawaii also has a potting kiln and displays her beautiful art on the walls
of her husbands business. At her house she has handmade tiles that she loves so
much she doesn’t want to move, although her husband is itching for it.
Barry, the painter
in Hawaii, sixty-something, lives in a school bus, rides a bike the 15 miles
from Pahoa to Hilo weekly in heat, or rain, and paints beautiful Island girls
and scenes. Is he HOME? I think so.
Kathey, here
in Eugene, is home at her sewing machine producing exquisite doll clothes.
In War of Art Steven Pressfield says,
first, “Nobody wants to read your shit,” (that’s a book, too, by the way), and secondly,
it’s your job to do the work whether people like it, read it, or crumple it. Or
worse, give it no attention.
You give it attention. It’s your
baby. It’s your job. It’s your HOME.
The more you practice your art, the better you will become, and most importantly—you will be happy doing it. Sometimes what we call tinkering is more home than that job.
It’s what you were meant to do.
Pressfield says
that since nobody really wants to read your shit, it forces you to write
something worth reading.
And think of
the honor when someone gives their time to read/watch/listen to your job.
You might
say this is well and good for creative sorts, like painters, photographers, musicians,
writers, and actors, but no, creativity
lives in everyone.
“HVE ENC ,” See, even my cat. He wrote this by walking over my keyboard. Finally, he has settled down behind my computer, and not on my CAPS
Lock key where he likes to sleep.
Now I can get my work done.
All along I have encouraged
people to go for their dreams. Why? Why would I care?
Because my job
is to do what I like to do and to encourage others to do the same.
What do you like to do?
This morning I
was humming, “How Great Thou Art,” the gospel song. (I heard an Elvis
Impersonator sing it recently and that set off fireworks in my brain.)
I thought of
the writer of that song, of the connection with the source, the muse, the
universal consciousness, God, whatever you want to call it. “Consider all the worlds thy hands have
made, I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder…” [Build to a crescendo.]
Incidentally,
that song, of all the songs Elvis Presley sang, gave him his first and third Grammy.
Ironically all Elvis’s Grammys were for gospel songs. (To be fair the Grammys
began in 1958 when Elvis was in the military.)
Artists of old
called that creative connection the muse. Some said their work was inspired. Those
are the artists who know it was not they who did the work, and thus their ego stepped
aside.
Van Gogh, while not financially successful in his lifetime,
did come from an earnest desire to share what he saw, and to present it in his own
unique way. That was his work. (And perhaps while painting, it quieted somewhat
the voices that yammered inside his head.)
Someone else
convinced us that Van Gogh’s paintings were worth the price they go for today.
To my friend in San Diego
California--You rock!
To Mrs. Chiropractor –keep on keeping on.
To Barry—your love
inspires.
To Kathey, your
granddaughter must feel the love in every stitch.
Go forth, do your
work. Have fun. Be happy,
I love you,
Joyce
P.S. Remember the accountant in
the movie “You Can’t Take it With you,” who secretly made a little wind-up
bunny? With encouragement, he left his job and
moved into the artist’s home to make toys.
Now, Go
HOME!
Barry's guitar.
