I've come to the decision that I am in need of a Satya sabbatical. I've found myself struggling for inspiration lately, and I have a distinct feeling my life is going to be taking some turns as I reexamine and reevaluate in the new year. I will be back, but this space will be evolving in the meantime.
I'm so grateful for this community--I can't wait to see where we'll go next.
Because it *is* art, this life--and art doesn't have to be beautiful. It doesn't even have to make sense or have some greater meaning. It only has to evoke, provoke, inspire its viewer to be better or different or other or like. It just has to move you--toward or away.
Movement and stillness--that's our dance; that's what we're learning.
Petals, we are like prisms--we can take something relatively straightforward and bend and refract it into something marvelous and extraordinary. We cannot ever forget this. It is this gift, this miraculous quality to create through adaptation, that allows us to see our way over, around, or through any situation. There is always an answer--even if it takes years of tinkering before we stumble upon it.
But the years don't matter--our faith in our own ingenuity and the willingness to keep trying are what does.
If we can believe that everything--even the discomforts, hard as it is--is arranged for our highest good, our deepest presence, then surely finding art, seeing beauty everywhere we can, cannot be too daunting a task or too much to ask.
I don't think, even if given the choice, that I would want all the answers. With easy access to answers, where is the curiosity? Where is the drive to discover? It's in that discovery that we stumble over the delightful surprise of our own creativity. Without mystery, there is no need for us to approach this life dynamically, in full color, and hell-bent on becoming our own singular expression of life.
Sometimes what is broken is of better use as compost, as literal or figurative fertilizer.
I try never to keep what is no longer of use or of beauty to me, but a very few objects live in my heart. Those I will mend again and again, and when mending is no longer possible, I'll put them aside and call it art.
What if we stopped waiting? Or, if that seems impossible, what if we began living now, *while* we wait. What if we focused on what we're already creating, rather that what we haven't created (or what hasn't been created for us)?
What would that tapestry look like? How telling, how inspired would be the arrangement of colors, chosen, not necessarily for their shades, but for their convenience and for how well they spoke for us in the moment?
You know when you find something--usually through seasonal cleaning or moving house--that you'd completely forgotten about? An item of clothing, a photograph, a gift unopened from a long-ago holiday--and suddenly there's a gratifying newness to your life, an excitement that things can drop in out of the blue, that no-strings surprises do exist past childhood.
I think we could have those discoveries daily. I think there are so many aspects of our own curiosity, of our own intelligence and creativity that we've either taken for granted for too long and thus forgotten or that were hammered out of us through disappointment, schooling, or the simple, difficult task of living.
I wonder, if we were just to ease up on ourselves just a little, if some of those forgotten discoveries would float up--bubbles of surprise buoying us through the sticky sameness of our days.
Instead of thinking, oh, I'm a mess, this is a mess, think instead, what a wonderful riot of color, of texture, of shape and of circumstance. How can these pieces come together, layer upon layer, to create this rich and complex life?
What happens when we shift into thinking creatively--whether or not we consider ourselves creative beings?
Spoiler alert: we are creative--we are makers down to our DNA. What do you think our ancestors did with their hands? Built houses, cooked food, created quilts and clothing, gardens and roads. They did it because they must, of course, but they also took the time to make objects more beautiful than they had to be.
That maker-art is still in us, singing its pattern of memories into our blood, waiting for us to pick up the tune.
We forget how easy it once was to invent entire worlds armed only with a few good books, a stuffed animal or two, and a room/a tree/a fort to climb into and call our own.
I think it was the safety of that space--the one fully ours with no complications of ownership or anxiety about time passing and proper use of that time--that cultivated such easy enterprise. And my question is, what's changed? Sure, we've become harder, less malleable, more prone to glancing over our shoulder to see who's watching, and lord knows we've invented all kinds of productive-looking habits.
But aren't we still that small creature who dreamed worlds infinitely larger than herself? And didn't we once find comfort in such spaciousness, in such boundless wilderness?