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  "Oh, dear, is that all you have to say?" is the sentiment they seem to embody. And they embody it no matter how riveting our insight may actually be. Unlike the muse who takes a mysterious and even mischievous interest in our thoughts, the non-muse takes a callow indifference. Nothing is ever quite good enough to really merit the full focus of their haughty attention.

  Not all muses speak to us with words. Sometimes a muse uses art itself to provoke us into artistry. I knew a flautist whose music was a positive Pied Piper to my storyteller. I would listen to him play and then want to play myself, but with words. A pianist proved another positive muse. His rippling melodies sent me run­ning to both the piano and the page, striving to communicate something back in response to what I had heard. The Impression­ists provoked paintings in one another. They were both friends and muses. But enemies can be muses as well, causing us to make art "right at them." A muse can be anyone, anyone who sets our creative engine humming. So we whistle while we work.

  Taking Care

  CATALYSTS

  Try this: Another word for "muse" is "fuse lighter." Some people simply provoke us into art. We respond to their interest and enthusiasm as to a welcome challenge. Such people are invaluable. It is not that we would not make art without them, but we might make less art, or art of a lesser caliber. Number from 1 to 5. Allow yourself to cherish the fuse lighters you have known. List their names and the projects they sparked. If you are short on fuse lighters, you may need to seek some out. If you have lost touch with a pivotal fuse lighter, you may wish to reestablish contact. Do this by phone, letter, or e-mail. If you live in the same town, you may want to make a date for coffee or drinks.

  The canyon that plunges south from Taos to Espanola, the one that features so many hairpin turns, is studded by floral crosses marking the spots where drivers have miscalculated and plunged from road to river below: The crosses are beautiful and fes­tive, and if you don't know what they mean, they are enjoyable. To the rest of us, they are a constant warning: Slow down, do not be arrogant. Do not be reckless. Take care.

  Sometimes our creativity escalates. Ideas and images flow to us rapidly. We work with unusual ease and spontaneity. Barriers melt away; we are sailing. At times like these, when we experience flow rather than block, it is important to observe the warning signs, to recognize that danger as well as exhilaration lies in the hairpin turns we giddily execute.

  When a piece of work is going well, we need to take special care of our creative stores. If we binge on our capacity to work, maniacally flying along our creative track, we run the risk of acci­dent. Often I have had people say to me, "Julia, I don't understand. It was going so well, and now I'm blocked." I want to tell them, "Remember what I've said. You are blocked because it was going so well. You outstripped your creative stores. You have burnout." As a rule of thumb, when our work is going well and we are tempted to binge on it, instead we must double our Artist Dates, working consciously to replenish the stores we have overdrawn. When we

  are working well, our artist feels tireless, even superhuman. But we are the vehicle through which our art enters the world. If we are short on sleep, on healthy recreation, on genuine interaction with those we love—these lacks will impact our artist. This is why Henry Miller advised artists to gain interest in life, in the world around them. He well knew the dangers. The world is teeming with interesting things, Miller advised us. If we fail to enjoy this earth, blaming it on our art, our art will lack earthly vitality; like a hothouse tomato, it will be flat and forced. This is vital to remem­ber. Artists whose work becomes too rarified, too inbred, and self-referential risk losing the very audience with whom they hope to connect. Great artists are great populists, for ideas are everywhere. "Are you with me? Are you following me?" These are the questions we ask when we are speeding through an explanation. The same questions serve the artist at all times. Too much velocity, and we lose coherence. An idea may come to us in a flash, but it can take years to effectively execute what we so suddenly saw. When the idea of an opera about Magellan came to me, it came in a sudden flood of music and images. I raced to get them down on the page, terrified that I would lose what I saw—but then the flood passed, and for five more years I limped behind it, working patiently to capture what I had seen. I studied old maps and the diary of Magellan's comrade. I read various historians' writings on his heroic voyage. Little by little I allowed my imagination to live at sea, as Magellan had. This patience paid off in my work. Work that is forced to come through too quickly often lacks clarity and specificity. It takes time to fill in the details, time to find the right details to fill in. Above all, it takes a full image bank, not one that we have overused in our hurry.

  TAKING CARE

  Try this: When our work becomes too heady, we need to get grounded by moving back into our bodies. There are a variety of ways to do this: walking, eating, cleaning, napping. Many of us use a combination of these, but I would like to suggest another powerful alternative: mending. That's right, mending. Most of us have a few tattered things that could benefit from our time and attention. When we sew, we sow the seeds of our creative success. The action of sewing, like that of swimming or scrubbing, is regular and repetitive. Any regular, repetitive ac­tion moves us out of logic brain and into artist brain. There we encounter the solutions to our creative difficulties. To test this theory, try doing some mending, and observe how quickly you feel centered, grounded, and peaceful.

  Rebirth

  Yesterday it rained. Great, heavy drops fell from the leaden sky. Lightning struck like jagged swords. Thunder rolled through Taos Valley. A high wind lashed the falling drops so they fell sideways in torrents on the windows of my old adobe house. Finally, joyfully, the so-long drought was at an end. Under the falling rain, the moistened sage gave off a heavy perfume. The pifion stands on the lower mountain slopes gave off a resinous fragrance. The earth once again felt rich and green. With every drop came the hope and promise of a renaissance.

  Creative droughts end without the fanfare of thunder and lightning. One day it is hard to work, almost impossible. The next day it is easier. Our perfectionist has backed off enough for us to have some room. Just as the first rain happily signals an end to the drought, so, too, the first good day's work signals the beginning of a new ease. We have come through the hard times, and we are reaping the rewards of our gentle perseverance. Just as the rains wash away the accumulated dust and debris of a longstanding drought, so, too, a good day's work restores us to sanity and opti­mism. Once again we are able to feel our spiritual taproot. We can sense the forces of inspiration moving through us. We feel not alone but connected—once more in contact with the Great Cre­ator and its intention for us to create.

  Rain ends with rainbows, great colored arcs over Taos Valley.

  Sometimes the rainbows are multiple, two and even three rib­boned bands. If we could, we would send up a colored fanfare to celebrate our own creative homecoming. We would signal our exuberant hope with a sky-touching omen. Yet creative break­throughs are more quietly colorful. One day we are able to make the phone call that had us stymied. From out of nowhere we have the power—or faith—to support our work. Droughts do end, and so do periods of creative hardship. If we are faithful to our practice of Morning Pages, Artist Dates, and Walks, droughts end sooner. For what is a drought, really, but a prolonged period of doubt when our faith wears thin?

  Ellen, a writer, finds she cannot write easily. For months she struggles uphill, straining to put words to the page. Faithful to her practice of Morning Pages, she finds those pages filled with cre­ative missives. She doubts she will ever write again, at least not easily and with joy. And then, one afternoon, the impossible is suddenly possible. She takes to the page lightly. Her pen has wings. Giddy with relief, she is yet afraid to trust her newly rediscovered powers. "It's just a freak," she tells herself, certain that the window of creativity will slam shut again. Yet, faithfully, she writes, grate­ful for the grace she's been granted, grateful that
for one day the drought has eased.

  Out of a sky half clouded and half clear, a moistening rain begins to fall again. It is another blessing; the earth is still thirsty. Authorities say fourteen more inches must fall before the govern­ment forest lands will be reopened to summer hikers. Fourteen inches of rain seems an impossible amount, a torrent. And yet it is raining, and with every drop the parched land grows greener.

  All artists suffer times of creative doubt—and drought. The

  bogeyman of fear and self-criticism, the knife blade of perfection­ism, looms close to each of us. Blocks cannot be eliminated, but their ability to effectively block us can be. The trick to work is working, the gentle persistence to remain on the page, to show up at the easel or sketchpad. At our most dull and deadened, we are still often artful. Despite our moods, despite our self-flagellation, creativity moves through us; like our blood, it is an unseen river that supports our life.

  REBIRTH

  Try this: It is easier for many of us to focus on our defeats than on our victories. We seldom celebrate the many milestones that we could. Focused on product, we ignore the process of our art. This tool asks you to celebrate your life in process. Take pen in hand and complete the following phrase as rapidly as possible:

  1. If I let myself, I could celebrate

  2. If I let myself I could celebrate

  3. If I let myself, I could celebrate

  4. If I let myself I could celebrate

  5. If I let myself I could celebrate

  A sense of celebration brings life joy and suc­culence. We are intended to enjoy the good things of this earth, including our own endeavors.

  Resiliency

  The summer rains have come. Taos Valley is restored to bal­ance. The flocks of grazing sheep and herds of cattle once again nibble a tender green. The parched brown grasses, flattened low to the earth by dusty winds, create now a gentle shelter for the new growth brought by the rains. The giant pines found at higher alti­tudes no longer shed their needles like dull brown pins. Restoration is at hand. The earth is resilient.

  As creative beings, we, too, are resilient. We are watered by the slightest daily practice that brings our creativity gently to bloom. Our Morning Pages, like moistening rain, keep our spirit from becoming parched and dry. Our Artist Dates, like a sudden drench­ing torrent, revivify our creative wellsprings. Even the shortest Walk restores sanity and a sense of scale. We are citizens of the green earth, attuned again to its tempo, finding in our own bodies the rhythm of the ages.

  Alice, a sculptress, suffered through a long creative drought. She wrote her Pages daily, she took her Dates and Walks, and she waited out her inner censor's grim and unrelenting scorn.

  "I am so grateful I was able to be stubborn," she laughs, "and stubborn is really what it boiled down to. I did my Pages no mat­ter what. I refused to let my censor triumph. I told myself that even though I did not feel creative, I was creative. I repeated that over and over to myself, making it a kind of mantra. I needed some-

  thing to drown out my censor's voice. I also had a sneaking suspi­cion that my block had appeared because I was on the verge of a breakthrough, not a breakdown."

  Happily, Alice was correct in her suspicion that her block was a last desperate attempt at sabotage by her censor.

  "I cannot tell you the fiendish cruelty my censor displayed to me," Alice recalls. "My every idea was 'terrible.' I was over the hill, dried up, done for, a has-been. Pretty much every fear that lurked in my subconscious was used by my censor in its attempt to disable me. I'm just grateful I had the courage to keep working somehow. My humor is part of what saved me."

  It was Alice's humor that suggested to her that as long as she was "fishing for ideas," she might as well do some mobile sculp­tures with fish. Brightly colored, whimsical, and beautiful, these sculptures featured fish floating amid driftwood. Sometimes a sculpture held as many as thirty colorful fish. Sometimes as few as five, carefully chosen. What all of the sculptures had in common was their mischief and imaginative playfulness, a lightheartedness that Alice did not feel but nonetheless embodied in her art.

  "I don't want to say that money is the bottom line, but when those sculptures began to sell despite my censor's criticism, I began to think, 'I'm onto something here,' and I was." From flying fish, Alice moved to mobiles of multicolored horses, flying in flocks. These, too, captured an immediate audience. "There's something to be said for sheer orneriness." Alice laughs. "I had enough years of creative recovery to have the faith to keep working despite my censor. In fact, I came up with a new theory: It's my belief that the nastier the block, the bigger the probable breakthrough."

  Alice's story is not unusual, nor do I believe she's wrong in her

  theory regarding blocks. Time and again I have seen the finest work greeted by the most ruthless inner resistance. It is worth think­ing of our inner censor as our inner saboteur. If we are bent on the successful accomplishment of our dreams, our censor is bent on keeping us small and dreamless. But we are not small and dream­less. We are large, we are powerful, we are resilient.

  RESILIENCY

  Try this: We are very strong, but we seldom credit ourselves with our strength. All lives con­tain great blows from which we must recover. We must recover, and we do recover. This is our resiliency. Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 5. List five blows from which you have recov­ered. For example:

  The sudden death of my friend John

  The loss of my job

  A severe bout of depression

  A bad car crash

  Losing my friendship with Martha

  In each of these situations, we had to muster the inner strength to face life anew. We contain such strength at all times; it is our untapped inner resource. We can count on it: We are resilient.

  Receptivity

  For two days the winds from the mountains have blown strong and harsh. Both rain and debris have been borne along by them. A large rain has saturated the earth, but now the wind de­mands another sort of submission, flattening the sage, bending the piiion trees, raising again clouds of dust, then pushing them to earth. Such wild winds are inconvenient and alarming. No house is snug enough to evade their prying fingers. On sideboards and bureaus, a fine coat of red-gold dust develops. Cyclists and hikers stay indoors. Gardens flatten to the earth. Nature rules.

  When nature holds ascendance, acceptance is key. So, too, we must practice acceptance when in the grip of a large creative proj­ect. We do not really write a book, paint a picture, sculpt a sculp­ture, or dance a dance. In these and all art forms, something larger than ourselves works through us, and our openness and receptivity are key. Art holds mystery at its core. We can conceive a project and yet, like any conception, we are only participating in the inaugura­tion of an independent life. Novelists tell stories of their characters' rebellion. Choreographers speak in awe of the new shapes and forms they are called to put into being. It is no different in the per­forming arts. When a pianist undertakes a composition, that com­position bears its own life force, shaping the player as much as it is played. When we are engaged in the creative process, we are engaged

  with higher forces. Mysterious forms and forces seek entrance through us, and we had best cooperate.

  For this reason, I often say that art is an act of the soul and not of the ego or intellect. To make great art requires great humility, the willingness to be obedient to what would be born through us. We are immersed in our creative projects. We are subject to them as to a great wind.

  Art impregnates us. We carry its new life. Waking or sleeping. A project is not finished until it is born, and it is born on its own schedule, not our own. In the initial phases of a piece of work, we may retain the illusion of control. We set a steady schedule and work to that. As our creative gestation continues, the inner life gains more and more primacy. A large project may carry an impe­rious energy, demanding from us time and focus. Creative break­throughs are exactly that: an onslaught of creative energies t
hat override our set and conventional boundaries. Just as a strong wind demands entry into our houses, a piece of work may insist on occupying our psyche. We may be talking to our children, din­ing with a husband, visiting with a friend—but we do not do it alone. The work is always present, always working its way through us, working even when we are not working, changing shape and form to find its entry to the world. In all of this, our task is sub­mission, not mastery.

  When we agree to be an artist, we agree to open ourselves to art. An artistic career involves less the coercion of art into forms we dictate than our cooperation with the forms dictated by art itself. It is this agreement to shape-shift that brings to the artist a childlike vulnerability. Children are responsive to the moment.

  Their moods are quicksilver, changeable, fleeting. The artist, too, must possess this fruitful mutability. We are shaped by the shapes moving through us. It is our obedience to the winds of inspiration that makes the artist a contrary citizen. It is not that we intend to be unpredictable, rather, that we tend to obey the dictates of a cre­ative urge. Sometimes one intimates greater tractability than we can honestly muster. As artists, we are sworn to openness. Like the sage, we must bend willingly to the wind.

  RECEPTIVITY

  Try this: Art is a collaborative process. Even when we practice a solo art form, we do so in collaboration with our universe. Many times our outer life impacts and colors our inner life. The two are interconnected. Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 5. List five people, places, or situations that became a part of your artistic life. For example:

  Taos: the setting for my book The Right

  to Write

  Mark Bryan: the catalyst for my book The

  Artist's Way

  New York: the setting for my book Walking

  in This World

  Tim Wheater: the catalyst for my play Love