Thursday, September 8, 2011

Procrastination or P-Writing

I’ve been stuck. Stuck on what to write, what to draw, paint, sew, anything. I’ve gotten so I just run away. I make plans to help someone instead of doing my art and I don’t know what that is about. I really enjoy doing my art. I enjoy the sewing and the beads and the little dolls and the wall-hangings but I’ve been stuck. I almost wish I could start over but I don’t know what I would start over at. Does that make any sense?

When I get right down to it I think I am stuck because I said I wanted to do this wall-hanging but I also see it as the illustrations to a story and I’m afraid the person who is waiting for the illustrations will be disappointed in my work or at how long it will take.

I’ve also been sitting here wanting to draw and to paint again and there seems to be no time for both. What I did recognize was the “running away” or as my son Tim says procrastination. It’s his birthday today. When we met for dinner last week I mentioned that I feel stuck and it is almost a depression feeling that I get between projects. My friend Deb calls it a “blue funk” and that is what it feels like. I’m not really depressed just listless when it comes to the art. So instead I sorted and cleaned the beads. I sorted clothes and took unused and unwanted to the Salvation Army. I’ve even done dishes.

The only solution I can figure out is to go away and have a cup of coffee and take my writing materials. I go to the coffee shop and journal. I write and I ask myself questions, P-writing it is called from the book Writing the Mind Alive.  This method helps to clear the muddle and the fuzziness of not really knowing.

Also, I’ve noticed while watching my thinking that I seem to feel that I need to show something on my blog, some piece of art instead of just writing. How silly is that. I’m a writer as well as an artist. So I’ve decided to put a poem on my blog. This poem is from my book of poetry published last year. I hope you enjoy and I will write more later.

collective consciousness

as I stroll through woods
of sugar maple
their cover of crimson
gold ochre and green
now discarded
crackles under
my footsteps

Alleghany Mountains surround me
worn and rugged
their faces hold many stories
their aura touches and comforts me

the earth in her glory
soft and warm with birth and death
invites me
sit for a while and rest
listen to the gentle winds
drifting through the trees
I hear those voices
words that float
on breath
from generations past

I am told they are veiled
yet I see them
dressed as pilgrims
and traditional Iroquois style
English, Scots, Irish and French
mix with Mohawk Oneida, Cayuga and Seneca

they are visions
for those who see
they are voices
for those who hear
they bring stories
told for generations
that one day I will tell

Barbara-Helen Hill

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