Creativity (1?)

I might have a lot to say about this ...

Good lord, it’s Imbolc already …

Imbolc, for those who don’t “pagan,” is the holiday celebrating the lessening of winter’s grip upon the land. So that’s really the opposite of what is happening here, but we live in hope. It is also the holiday celebrating the Irish goddess Brighid, goddess of Fire, Healing, Inspiration, and Blacksmithing because obvs. No, really, healing and inspiration are about using fire in very specific ways, and blacksmithing is definitely a fire-intensive sport. It tracks. Fire in the head (music, poetry, art), fire in the heart (compassion, empathy, and using fire (heat) to make teas, tinctures, infusions, salves, and so on), and fire to release the tools contained in the raw metal mined from the earth. Imbolc is typically observed from sundown-to-sundown February 1-2, although the stars are more important in calculating the exact date than the oh so very imperfect Gregorian calendar. Officially, it’s when the Sun reaches 15 degrees in Aquarius, which in 2026 means February 3-4. So take your pick.

Brighid is one of the greatest of our inspiring goddesses. She has been a muse to millions, and was so beloved that the Catholic Church had no choice but to make her a saint because the Irish would not let her go. They kept returning to her wells, and to her sacred fires (which are still kept burning continually). Legend has it she walks through the world on Imbolc night to offer her blessing to the houses and the farms. If you leave a coat, cape or shawl outside on that night, she will bless it, and every time you wear it you will be warm and inspired. I have a cape I might just leave out this time.

Brighid is also believed to be a “virgin” goddess, but we all know that old trick. She was whole and complete in herself, and did not require a man to supervise her every action, so she never took an official consort. But goddess of fire? Gorgeous red-haired poetess and healer? Sexy blacksmith? If she didn’t get it on at will with whoever she liked I will eat my hat.

But that’s not why you called.

Creativity is all about Fire. The Irish used to say poets had “a fire in the head,” which is, frankly, accurate. That’s a bit what inspiration feels like. Not the destructive kind of fire, but the fun kind, the kind where you are dancing around it with a bunch of cool possibly naked people while throwing shots of whisky into the flames and singing at the top of your lungs. Oh, come on, you’ve done it - or wanted to. It is therapeutic and I highly recommend it. Only maybe wear foot protection because embers can jump and that is an initiation I would find entirely unnecessary.

Fire in the head. Connecting hands and heart. Creativity is expression. Music and art allow us to express the things that mere words manage to mangle, sugar-coat, or whiff utterly. When we are feeling something deeply, I think our language centers get put on standby-mode in order to make space to feel the feels and learn what they’re trying to teach us. We don’t need words to learn that kind of lesson. At all. In fact, words may be a real handicap.

If I sit down with a guitar, usually I can play what I’m feeling. I can say, this feels like an Fmaj7sus2 situation, or an Em7add9 type of pain, or an Asus2 that leads to a Dm7 that then goes to an Fmaj7sus2, dropping that A in the Dm7 off with a little flourish just so … (k, I’m gonna have to go try this in a minute, just pulling these chords out of my ass here). And suddenly you’re transmuting what you feel into art, and either your words come back online and you turn it into a song, or you end up writing a little chord melody and letting the music speak like the whisper of pure Presence. Either way you win. And Jesus Transmuting Christ you feel better, an even bigger win.

Wordless

Expressions of transcendent beauty, expressions of unspeakable pain, incandescent rage, keening sorrow, and breath-taking love, are best shared without clunky, pesky words sometimes. Unless you’re a poet, and then you get a pass because, hey, metaphors. But I’ll bet if a poet was in the throes of some kind of unspeakable ness they would not be able to write anything more than, “Argh! Wha? Huh? Did you just … I mean … GAH!!!” Which could be poetic if put in the right order and displayed on a page in just such a way with a really pithy title. But. Maybe not. Poets are good at calling that shit up later when their words are back online. Honestly, so are all of us, only some of us transmute it and some of us let it fester.

Which one of those options seems like the winner to you?

Sure, sometimes you have to let that shit simmer on the back burner a while until you collect just the right secret blend of words and spices to use the pain to make a point, which can also be quite valuable. We can turn pain into teachable moments, that’s part of art’s job, to make the beholder (or the (ahem) behearer) think about times when they might have experienced something similar, either perpetrating, or being the scapegoat for somebody else’s bullshit. And hopefully that art can stir up the stuff in the brain that leads to a spine, or alternatively a heart.

Art can save soul and life and sanity. At its best, it’s a clarion call, a beacon of clarity in a world filling with shadows. At it’s worst, it’s usually at least somewhat entertaining, even if it elicits a raised eyebrow and a whatever, dude as its only response.

I’ve been reading a book by Robert Fritz called “Creating,” which is really good. There’s a line (there’s always a line) that caught me as especially relevant in these days of endless competition and ruthless self-surveillance: A thing worth doing is worth doing badly until you learn how to do it well. Hell yes. That’s why I’m taking piano lessons for the first time in my life at age 61. I want to continue to learn, and to grow, and to be a beginner again - it’s so good for the brain! And the heart and soul.

So go forth and create badly until you learn to create well! Or if you already create well, try something new that you absolutely stink at so you can learn to do it well eventually. I can’t draw for shit either, so maybe that’s next on my list of stuff to do to keep my brain from rotting away like a certain Oval Bordello occupant. Now that’s worth doing.