Daily Practice Obligation: 12/24
From the journal December 2024:
When did creativity become just another chore on the endless list, like laundry, folded into the fabric of daily obligations? It strikes me that when we treat it as such, the act of creation slips into the rhythm of life with surprising ease; it takes far less time to do. Much of my longing for creative time is wrapped up in the notion that I must first coax myself into the right mood, waiting for that elusive spark, the divine whisper that says, "Now is the moment." We crave the feeling of inspiration, as if it were some rare, precious gem, and when it doesn't arrive promptly, we convince ourselves that the solution lies in more time, more space, more ritual.
But what if the answer is not in the ceremonial arrangements of perfect paper and the ideal noise level, or the precise pin that holds our dreams in place? By draping creativity in the robes of special occasion, I rob myself of the very time I seek. It becomes an elaborate performance rather than the simple act of breathing, a ritual that hinders rather than helps. I understand that creativity needs to be nonnegotiable, a daily practice that flows through my veins as naturally as blood. It should not be contingent on my mood or the judgment that lurks in the shadows, whispering doubts and fears.
I see now that what I seek is not the approval of some inner critic—the sensor that stands guard, arms crossed, waiting for the right moment to grant me permission to create—but the raw, gut-level knowledge that my creativity is both doable and portable. It can exist in any space, under any conditions, as long as I refuse to let those conditions dictate my worth. I must learn to weather the storms of my moods, to push through the fog on the days when inspiration feels like a distant star, no less real for its absence. If I wait for the day when my inner sensor, that insatiable beast, deems me worthy, I may find myself in an eternal limbo, forever yearning for that green light that never comes. Instead, I must train this inner voice to step aside, to allow me the freedom to work without its incessant critique. I do not need to obliterate it; rather, I must learn to exist alongside it, to wade through its constant stream of negativity without drowning.
Blocks are a part of the artist's life, a reality as palpable as the paint on my palette—some days they are merely annoying, other times they loom like dark clouds, heavy with the promise of despair. No one is immune to them; those who claim otherwise are merely whistling in the dark, trying to drown out the truth. The trick lies in acceptance, in acknowledging the block's presence while forging ahead regardless. I must embrace the discomfort, the uncertainty, and work anyway, letting the act of creation become my rebellion against the chaos of self-doubt. So I will paint through the storms, scrawl words in the shadows, and carve out moments of creativity in the cracks of my day. I refuse to let my sensor dictate the terms of my artistry. Instead, I make my creativity a daily ritual, a heartbeat in the midst of the noise, and in doing so, reclaim the creativity that is inherently mine.
