The Secret Drawer

I open my eyes to a blue light, the veil between waking and dream worlds, as thin as a spider web. I am so near the edge of sleep, it’s like waking up beside the deep pond of my self. The light of my mind touches on my mother, and some treasures in her secret drawer. I dip my hands into the water to bring them up.

Old key in lock

Last weekend, I helped my father sort through my mother’s clothes—some to donate to Goodwill, others to the high school Theater department.

It was odd to imagine my mom’s old clothing, altered and embellished for young actresses, standing bravely on the stage. I think my mom would like that. She enjoyed the theater. The things she touched, that warmed her skin, that she carried—all props in the stories of her life.

When we finished with her clothes, I opened her drawer of keepsakes, full of notes and artwork from me and my siblings. It felt intimate, looking at what my mom had saved. Like maybe I shouldn’t be looking—except that they were things that I wrote or made for her. They are my past, too.

I found a long piece of Christmas paper, with each end rolled toward the center. Puzzled, I unrolled it to find a note I had written in pencil.

“A scroll for the family. I love you [lists their names] — Love, Julie Ann.”

I felt a prick to my heart, and then tears. A vague memory of making that scroll flickered in my mind, like a few frames from an old film. And with it, deep feeling—of loving my family so much, and wanting them to understand that.

I looked further, curious to know what else meant so much to my mother.

I found a cigar box covered with pink contact paper, with gold stars and a red wooden knob. I recognized the paper and the box. One of my brothers—now a gifted painter—made it at school. Inside, I found a pinecone that was spray-painted blue. A pair of little boy’s sunglasses, with sand still stuck to them. And a small, round tin box that I’d decorated with felt, ribbon, rhinestones, and costume jewelry. In the tin box was a tiny photo of me, a little toy chicken and duck, a Christmas tag, two beads, and a toy ring.

I found notes I’d written to my mother and father, drawings, a story I wrote, and a “newspaper” I made. One newsworthy article said, “Mrs. Baldwin had to wait for 2 hours for the TV repair man!” And in the sports section, “They [sports] are stupid like always!”

Between my tears, I was laughing. I found at least three notes with promises to “clean my room tomorrow.” In one of them, I warned my mom not to look, because it was so messy it might be “hazeras” to her health.

Going through my mother’s secret drawer, I rediscovered some elemental parts of myself, moments I’d forgotten—like bits of old leaves in the silt at the bottom of a pond—and it is from them that I create.

Type block with word 'self'

I crave—and yet avoid—that initial piercing of my heart. The flow of emotion, the darkness, the light, the loss, the gifts, the betrayals, the kindnesses…. But I open the secret drawers of my memory anyway.

I peek inside. I shine a light through the depths of my pond, touching remnants of what I no longer clearly remember. That is where meaning lives—waiting to be reborn in a story, a poem, or a painting. Those are the treasures that I bring up from the depths.

Being Real

I’ve been struggling the last couple weeks, trying to get back into the swing of things after the holidays. Grief has pulled me by the ankles into the Underworld. Regret circles like a dark fin in the water of my subconscious.

Moon at night over the sea

I know, to some degree, what is going on. I’m grieving the loss of my mother. I’m feeling regret about some decisions that changed the trajectory of my life. And I can feel an insight being born.

Whether I simply bring this insight into my life, or make art from it, the process that I’m going through is the mystery at the core of being human.

It’s hard to write, when I’m in this place.

I’ve started three different blog posts, only to set them aside. I can’t make sense of anything. Whatever insight wants to come into the light is still forming on the edge of my periphery.

I often struggle with this part of the creative process, and try to control it. I don’t want to feel the grief and regret, but there’s nothing I can do to think or analyze my way out of it. There’s no shortcut; I have to surrender, feel what I feel, and be honest about it.

I just have to be real. I also have to be patient, and let go of my desire to control the result, to wrap it up with a nice, neat bow.

Because I know—from going through this process countless times in my life—that when it looks like all is lost, if I stay present, I will be able to bring a piece of treasure back from my journey to the Underworld.

An insight, in a piece of writing.

A wordless response, in color and form.

A reconnection with my own ballast, centering me in an uncertain world.

The Creative Heroine’s Journey

Woman walking down road into sunset

While writing my novel, I’ve been thinking a lot about Joseph Campbell’s “Hero’s Journey.” By studying many cultures, Campbell identified recurring themes in stories, and distilled them into a universal pattern of human growth.

As a creative woman in midlife, I am on a journey to find new meaning in my life. Finding my voice and sharing my vision is part of that journey. And I find myself wondering, what is the “Heroine’s Journey,” especially for creative women in their middle years?

Although there is a general order in the journey, growth isn’t linear, and you might revisit each phase along the way. This is what I’ve learned so far.

Phase One—The Default Life

Woman with dirty dishes in kitchen

Whether your current situation is good, bad, or indifferent, you know it’s time for a change.

Maybe you came to your “default life” through a plan that led to exactly where you wanted to be. Or perhaps, life derailed your plans, leading you to where you didn’t want to be.

Regardless, you know you need to grow and stretch beyond your current life.

How do you know? You get a wake-up call.

Phase Two—The Wake-Up Call

Telephone receiver on clock

Your wake-up call might come as a subtle whisper, or a jarring scream.

It can be a rejection of something you don’t want: NOT THIS!

It can be a calling for something you do want: YES, THIS!

For me, it was a combination of both.

I did not want to work in a business that put numbers first and people last. But more importantly, I needed to express myself creatively. To not create was not an option, because creating is my calling.

The wake-up call can be especially poignant at midlife, because along the way, you’ve experienced real losses and narrowed choices, and the clock is ticking. You have a sense of urgency.

How do you discover and follow your calling? You simply start doing what matters to you. You take the first steps.

Phase Three—First Steps

Footprints in sand on beach

This is where you get to explore and discover. You get to play and make mistakes. I love this phase because it’s full of curiosity and wonder!

You follow clues and have insights. You try on many hats until you find the one that not only fits, but looks like you.

It’s exciting! You’re full of energy and enthusiasm. You’re having fun.

The world is full of possibilities… until it isn’t.

Here come the dragons. Here come the doubts and regrets, the confusion, the loss and grief. “Welcome” to phase four.

Phase Four—Lost and Found

Dark forest with fog

You know you’ve entered this phase when you feel alternately lost and found, hopeless and hopeful.

You might experience a roller coaster of ups and downs, marinate in a stagnant soup, or twirl in a whirlpool.

Round and round you go, until you find your own still center, at the heart of the moving wheel that is your life.

Here’s the key to this phase: Letting go of what is passed allows your life to expand again. It’s not easy. This phase is difficult, but essential. (See When Hope Evaporates for an example.)

This phase cooks away everything extraneous. It leaves you with the core of yourself, stronger and wiser.

Phase Five—Committing

Commitment

There comes a point on your journey where there is no going back. This is where you make it real in a way that you haven’t before.

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way.
Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.
Begin it now.

— William Hutchison Murray

Commitment has been especially challenging for me. All sorts of fears come up, but foremost is the fear of not having enough. It jumps right into my path and demands that I deal with its taunts, that I won’t have enough money, enough food, enough help. Enough (already)!

To borrow from Campbell, this is where I have to face my inner dragon and make friends with it, because each time I try to “slay” it, it returns. It is teaching me something, painfully at times, that I need to understand.

There is truth in what the dragon says; it’s just a matter of degree. Facing the dragon diffuses the drama. It turns the raging beast into a little lizard. It’s still there, but it’s not going to destroy my dreams.

There are no guarantees, except that one day, this life will end. It matters immensely how I choose to live the life that I have left on this beautiful earth. I choose to create.

Phase Six—Finding Your Voice

Woman singing into microphone

As you take your first steps, find and lose your way over and over, but commit to your journey anyway, your unique creative genius emerges.

No one sees the world exactly like you do. No one else looks through your eyes, no one else shares your mind, your soul, your experiences that make you who you are.

Sometimes, I start to talk myself out of doing something, because “someone else has already done it.” Of course someone else has already done it! That’s not the point.

The point is, no one else can do what you do, the way that you do it. Sing loud and strong!

Phase Seven—Sharing Your Vision

Woman looking through fingers

When you develop and share your gifts, you are giving in a powerful way. You touch people beyond your circle of family and friends. This is profound.

Creative women who are also caretakers, often think they’re being “selfish” when they take care of their own needs—let alone follow their calling. They must face the “Selfish Dragon.”

If you’re struggling with this, let me offer you a new perspective: When you follow your calling—when you write your novel, paint your masterpiece, sing your soul—and share it with the world, we all benefit.

That is what I mean when I say, “The world wants your gifts!”

My life, your life, everyone’s life is a journey of discovery. We’re all exploring some facet of the universe, using the gifts we bring to this world. When we share these gifts, we enable others to look through the lens that we see through. It expands our lives. And that is thrilling!

Don’t hoard your treasure. Don’t waste your gifts. Share them with us!

Navigating the Dark Places

One afternoon, you’re “walking along,” having an average day. Whether you’re content or not, you’re at least somewhat comfortable, because you’re following a routine. The structure of predictability feels safe.

Woman's feet hiking on a trail

Then, something profound happens.

Someone you love dies. You lose your job, or begin a new one. You get divorced, or you marry. You have a child. Or you develop a health issue.

Regardless of whether what happens is positive or negative, you experience an inner shift.

You become conscious of something new—or see something old in a new way—and it doesn’t fit neatly into your view of the world.

Or your role in the world changes, and you no longer quite fit in the life you’ve been living.

The old routines don’t keep you steady anymore. The signposts on your map disappear, and you stumble off the path. Then, a hand reaches up through the earth and pulls you into the underworld.

You wander around in the dark, overwhelmed and feeling lost. You fear you will never find your way home.

Mythical Phoenix bird of fire

This is exactly where you need to be.

This is where magic lives. A part of your consciousness is going through a real death and rebirth. You’re preparing to rise like the Phoenix, and this is sacred work.

Metaphors—like the myth of the Phoenix—are a kind of magic. They communicate through story, a process so deep that it can be difficult to describe and express directly.

The underworld, like the soil, is a dark, rich place of decay, death, and growth. It needs water (tears) and light (consciousness) to bring forth something new: an insight, a new perspective, a piece of art.

Soil cross-section with plant roots

Creativity is an essential part of life. It’s a core way we learn to navigate the dark places, and grow as a result. Sometimes, writing a poem is the only way to make sense of an experience. Combining images in a collage can create an aesthetic whole, out of fragmented pieces of life.

This is how we express the depth of being human. And we need this from one another.

When we bring our experiences and insights back to the community, we are like creative shamans, bringing healing to others through art.

If you have something to say—and you do—we need to hear it. We are your community. Experiencing your journey gives us hope. It helps us see we are all on our own journeys, and we are not alone.

The Day I Knew I Could Lose Everything

English Setter dog

I’m not sure of the typical age of a child, when he or she first understands the concept of loss. I remember being very, very young when our English Setter died.

No one told me anything, either because they thought I was too young to understand, or they weren’t sure how to tell me. Probably a little of both.

I remember thinking about her, and looking for her. But when I couldn’t find her, I assumed she must be in another room. I thought I kept missing her, somehow, even though I knew something wasn’t right.

I was so young that I would wonder about her, then get distracted by whatever was in front of me, and forget to ask. That went on for a couple days. When I finally remembered to ask my mom about her, she said, “She died.”

I understood, sort of, what death was, and I went to my room, laid on my bed, and cried. Then I think I got up and played. I was so young that I was only semi-conscious about what happened.

It was a few years later, when I was around kindergarten age, that I was first struck by the consciousness of loss—and having no control.

Whenever I’ve had strong insights, or made decisions that were important to me, I have clear memories of where I was at the time. As a small child, most of those moments—the ones I’ve held onto, anyway—happened when I was in the back yard, by myself.

Maple leaves

While my brothers were at school, I had mornings and early afternoons to play. One day, I remember walking out back, the sky blue, the maple tree full of green leaves.

I’ve always felt strongly connected to something bigger than myself, and when I’m aware of it, I feel “plugged in.” That’s exactly how I felt that moment, looking at the tree and the sky, in love with the world.

My mind went from thinking about how much I loved the world, to the people I loved: my parents, my brothers, my grandparents, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends.

And that’s when it hit me: I would lose them someday.

Then my thoughts went to everything I could lose, and everything anyone could lose: people they loved, their jobs, their money, their homes, their possessions, their health, their lives.

And that’s when I became fully conscious that things would happen in life—things that I didn’t want to happen—that I had no control of.

It scared me.

I remember standing still, trying to think of one thing—any thing—that I had control of. And what came to me was my character. How I treated other people. My honesty. Being true to my word. Trying my best to be a good person. Being true to myself.

White stone among black stones

I knew that everything else would fall away, eventually, even this shell I inhabit.

Looking at behavior and decisions, from the perspective of how they affect my character, became my guiding philosophy. It hasn’t changed to this day, although it’s expanded and deepened some.

What we take with us is who we have chosen to become.

We affect the world, profoundly, by who we are.

Each of us has something to give, and by being conscious, authentic, and taking responsibility for our lives, we can help others do the same. We can inspire them, give them courage, make them laugh, help them forgive themselves.

Creativity, whether profound or irreverent, is such a gift.

Every day on Facebook, I share posts of Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings, because of how they make me feel. He saw the movement behind things, in colors that almost make me swoon. What if he had never painted?

Recently, I re-read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. That book changed my life, because it was the first work of fiction that described life the way I experienced it. Woolf was highly sensitive and intuitive, and to read something created by a mind that I had such an affinity with, was an amazing gift to me. What if she had never written?

Be true to your creative gifts. Who you become—what you learn and how you grow when you create something—matters as much as the piece of art, or writing, or music you leave behind.