Pages from a Spiral Bound Life
From the monthly archives:
The seeds are falling from the maples,
quietly spinning and drifting in the breeze,
and landing on the path beneath my feet.
It’s as if a flock of paper robins
exploded in mid flight.
Their thin, toasted feathers remain.
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Yesterday, someone commented on one of my drawings by noting that I had too much free time. It made me laugh and it made me think.
What is the opposite of free time? Slave time? Maybe there are people who have too much slave time, never allowing themselves to draw or write or dance or sing or do anything that pleases their soul.
Some people tell me they don’t have time, but time is all they have, all they’ll ever have, until it’s gone.
And when they have spare time, some people spend it worrying or stewing in anger. Some gossip, some complain, some go numb.
I have chosen to do this, and to draw, and to read, and to listen to music, and whatever else comes to mind.
If this is free time, then I don’t have too much of it. I have just enough, and I love it.
This is my free time, my me time,
my go climb a tree time,
my sing out with glee time,
my learn how to see time.
I’ve no time for slave time,
for go dig a grave time,
for sink in the waves time,
for learn how to cave time.
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I’ve heard tales of parrots
living among sailors
and acquiring their salty language.
But I have a canary
who once lived with cats
and now imitates their cries.
What a nifty, feathered
feline mind trick
this seems to me to be.
Hey there, my kitties,
I am one of mew.
I am one of mew.
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I have tried on so many labels my soul must look like one of those suitcases covered in stickers denoting all the places its owner has been. Writer, blogger, poet, creative explorer, coach, speaker, student, philosopher and all the other things I’ve dreamed of being.
But not so long ago I turned to Carol and said, “I’m an artist.” And today I wrote those words over and over and over in my journal. I am an artist. I am an artist. I am an artist.
Just now, I plugged the title into an online dictionary and received this definition: a person whose creative work shows sensitivity and imagination. I don’t know if that’s who I am, but it’s precisely who I long to be.
The trouble for me has always been my resistance to defining what kind of artist I wish to become. I write, but do I wish to be known as a writer or as an artist who happens to write? I’m learning to draw and paint, but do I wish to be known as a drawer and painter or as an artist who happens to draw and paint? If I picked up a musical instrument and started to play would that make me a musician or an artist who happens to play music?
I don’t want to be defined, at least not in any narrow sort of way, but if I had to define myself or describe what it is I wish to become, I think it would go something like this:
Ken is an artist and explorer who dabbles in many things, including but not limited to drawing, painting, writing, music, and other forms of creative expression. Every day he explores the realm of the possible and is frequently delighted and intrigued by the surprises life has to offer.
I think of this advice from the biologist, Thomas H. Huxley: Try to learn something about everything and everything about something. It’s the second part of that sentence that’s always tripped me up. What is my something? Sitting here today, the only something I can come up with is the exploration of a question – What does it mean to be an artist?
It’s not all that unusual for story telling and music to collaborate, but I found this performance by Alexander Balanescu and Ada Milea to be particularly interesting.
Enjoy.
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