How many times during the average lazy hazy days of summer do you mindlessly wander into Michaels or Hobby Lobby believing you’ve been blessed by the almighty creative bug and this will be the year that the angels of inner peace and outwardly involvement have been patiently waiting for?
I’m constantly accused of having too much on my plate…being the owner of this outlet I’d say you’re judging the book by its cover. I’m not ashamed or too shy to admit that I’ve got the courage to endlessly open new doors to an arena that’s available for all to play within but the idea of mastering any or just of them is flat out too complex and brain cramping boring.
I’m completely guilty of being a rusher.
Whoa! I want a rose garden in the front yard so the mailman can have something positive to hold onto during their mundane drive through cookie cutter Home Depot designed neighborhoods. I grab the shovel and start digging holes; no research on which rose would best enjoy the endless amount of pouring down sunshine; not even a desire to fortify the soil with fertilizers and other beads of feed that would make each rose want to leap from the Georgia clay and kiss a passing cloud.
The artist in me is always in a big hurry.
I want so badly to be the spoiled kid with twenty five snotty nosed brothers and sisters and totally point my mud covered index finger at radio. Ha! Talk about judging a book by its cover! Thirty one years in the biz and I’ve yet to attain the origin first put into play while being a stinky butt record collector who at the ripe old age of fourteen told his parents to drive him to Laurel, Montana for my first radio job or I’d become their worst nightmare. While unlatching his belt Dad said no and proceeded to explain that he had the upper hand on who would become the worst nightmare if such conversations elected to continue.
Artist’s who rush their projects are silencing desire.
Artist Way author Julia Cameron might actually have the equation as to why it’s rush, rush, rush then poof…we’ve rolled over and fallen quickly to sleep. Your body creates endorphins. The very endorphins you use during heated moments of passion are also put into play while creating. This isn’t a case of one plus one making two…it’s more like one minus one leaving you with nothing.
Your love life sits still when the artist within has nothing. Taking too much from the endorphin pool on either side of the white picket fence ends up being a stale pale day unpleasantly displayed on a canvas that’s been colorized by your judgment and not the ones you feel are constantly attacking.
Rushing your creative self is no different than dumping twenty gallons of gas into your car then hitting the highway at 110 mph. The first convenience store stop is pretty cool because you load up on Snickers bars and chips…but eventually the kidneys don’t have to go and the only thing you’re truly trying to accomplish is locating more fuel for an engine you feel should be up and ready 24/7.
Tae Kwon Do could very well be the feeder line to my passing of time. It wasn’t until I woke up one day a red belt that I realized, “What the hell have I learned?” The answer kept coming up…nothing. But hey! I have a red belt! Which won’t buy me electricity to run the refrigerator nor will it dig for fossil fuels so I can go 112 mph on my creative freeway of love.
From the introduction of your foot meeting the cracked sidewalk circling the elementary school to college, martial arts, cooking classes and driving school for those whose choice was to exceed the limits printed on road signs…every human brought to this planet is taught to be who they want and need to be way, way too quickly then expected to fly without hitting brick walls, mountains or invisible trees.
Through nature we learn to eject…the project crashes but we don’t burn up.
I’ve decided to bend the pages of the book and hook something unique to the cover of this faceless collection of words meeting eyes. My greatest challenge isn’t creative flow it’s teaching myself that the odds of me getting another 48 years to test drive this machine called me comes with no guarantee. I’ve not entered a state of lazy learning but have become wise in knowing nothings being accomplished with fast talk and shove it down your throat perceptions that claim the human mind can handle more input.
I walked out of a recording session this past Saturday horribly disappointed with the way the writing, singing and mixing project was going: I’m no different than anyone else; the best part of being creative is watching the suns rays’ race to an innocent cloud turning it into an array of two billion colors. Sadly, if the ball of fire falls too quickly the only thing we’re left holding is a whisper that says, “I’m done…move forward.”
Alan keeps telling me, "Stop rushing...enjoy the process of music coming to life."
I took that ill fitted mood into Tae Kwon Do last evening…rather than fight the system of speed reading and kicking, the decision to pace myself infected the instructor’s methods of delivering. Ten minutes into the education not just my mind but nearly every person in attendance began to let go…only to hear fellow black belts reprimanding the younger minds for not paying attention. It’s too easy to point a finger when the easiest and best way to fix a broken pipe in the Gulf of Mexico isn’t to rush into rash decisions but rather to heal the leak by trusting time for what it is….everyday, which out change, never a doubt…its always going to be 24 hours, 60 minutes in every hour, 60 ticks to make one minute and even that is too slow for runners and sports fanatics whose addiction is to collect the most gold.
When you purchase a new freezer why doesn’t it instantly make ice? Why do songwriters continue to make four minute pieces when the majority of us find more pleasure in hitting the arrow that never says NEXT…we just do it?
What if you slowed down your way of bringing creativity to the surface of reality and physically, mentally and spiritually became connected to reasons why your system of choices has gifted you with the opportunity to do what you do? Do you know why we can’t? Fear of failure.
Until you change…enjoy your creative silence.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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