Not a square in sight. So far.
Having grown up on the Northern Coast of California, the roar of the surf was the soundtrack of my days, 24/7. When I reached the incredible freedom of my driver's license, "the beach" would call me with its distant conversation. My young dreams of future life were of a house on the Coast, with animals and a studio, and bookshelves lined with Leo Tolstoy and Zane Grey.
Of course, life has carried me far, beyond my wildest dreams in many ways, though short of living day by day on the Coast. I am not disappointed. I am satisfied.
My studio is a humble bedroom-converted, with windows that encourage sunlight to splash into the room. On a fairly regular basis I am driven to clean out and re-organize, because my obsessive-compulsive housekeeper raises her critical head and delclares my sanctuary a mess. Geez, I say. Must you be so harsh? Don't most artists have all their stuff, their material, all around them? O. K. I see: Do we need all ((ALL)) of this?
To be fair, I do admit that I have been cleaning-out. Have made my lists, and checked them off. I do enjoy a more open space within which to work, as meditation often begins with my eyes landing gently in a corner, on the window sill, or top shelf. Inspiration is only a breath away, or a stepping aside to allow its entry. It comes forward, not unlike the winter sunlight dancing with the Madonna and Lady Guadalupe and the Blue Birds.
Fifteen years (or so) ago, the forces of nature which govern and pummel the Northern Coast created a never-before Sea Ball. High tides, high winds and the January surf created them from sea grass, twigs and roots. My nieces, nephews, kids and I collected them out the the wild water. They still inhabit my space. No. I will never throw them out. I have given a few of them away, re-homed them. Periodically I give them the once over with the vacuum cleaner. After all this time and cleaning, they still pour forth sand.
It is human nature to be creative. It is our nature to create and hold beliefs, ritual, and meaning about our lives. These become our stories, what we hold to be true.
So often, what we hold to be true isn't. This is the space, once cleaned out of untruth, becomes the source of our renewed and rediscovered creativity.
Hey. I love you.