blog as therapy

“it is not because things are difficult that we do not dare; it is because we do not dare that they are difficult.”
- seneca, roman philosoper & statesman

funny thing about this blog stuff - it sure keeps your mind busy even when you're not working on it. i've been giving a lot of thought to my own creative processes (or the lack thereof) the last week or so, and that's something i tend to ignore.

but i think i've had something of a break-through. i've admitted to myself that my short attention span is more than just a mildly humorous quip at my own expense (e.g. 'i have the attention span of a gnat'). it's my excuse - my excuse for everything from why i can't stay with a project until completion, to why i can't seem to choose a 'style' of my own to work on and develop further.

it also goes hand-in-hand in some mildly esoteric way with my impatience with my own imperfections. i find that there are many things i don't start or stay with simply because i'm not perfect at it the first time i attempt it. there will be no learning curve for me, thank-you-very-much! but the opportunities i've missed...the regrets i now have...

i took piano lessons as part of my college experience; the instructor used the suzuki method, meaning i played 'twinkle, twinkle, little star' 'til the cows came home. i enrolled my nine-year-old son in lessons with the same instructor, so we would go together. it was a magical time...classes were held in the beautiful adobe home of our instructor, in her living room with the 2 baby grand pianos that sat side-by-side. my son and i even learned a duet of a christmas carol to play together for his recital. at the last minute, though, i insisted that the instructor play with him, and not me...because i wasn't perfect. there was this one little spot at the very end of the song...two notes that i just couldn't get the timing on correctly. so i was a very proud parent, sitting with all the other proud parents in the recital audience, watching my son's two-minute performance with his instructor.

to this day, it breaks my heart that i was a spectator to his accomplishment, and not an accompanist.

twelve years later, i still have a piano in my home. and once or twice a year, i pause in front of the keyboard and dredge up from memory a few bars from one of the songs i played over and over and over again during my lessons. i yearn to play the piano, but i seem to be waiting for the day when i can wake up and pause in front of the keyboard and magically play mozart or bach or beethoven with the best of them.

what this all boils down to is a sort of personal (and abbreviated) twelve-step program for learning new skills. i am admitting that i am powerless over my own need for perfection. i am making a fearless moral inventory of myself and my learning of new skills. i am admitting to myself and others the exact nature of my shortcomings. and i am trying to make amends to those i have harmed. part of making amends is giving myself permission to be imperfect...to learn and grow and accept that imperfections are learning experiences, not judgments on my worthiness as a member of the human race. and part of amending is to talk to my now-adult son about that piano recital. i wonder if he even remembers....i know i do.

“come to the edge.”
“we can't. we're afraid.”
“come to the edge.”
“we can't. we will fall!”
“come to the edge.”
and they came.
and he pushed them.
and they flew.

- guillaume apollinaire,
1880-1918 french poet & philosopher

peace & light -
m'lis