In a writing circle when I give an invitation or prompt  which could be in the form of a question or a line from a poem, each person writes something different, in their own voice. Voice is who we are, who we’ve been, and who we are becoming.

For the Writing Life women’s circles I facilitate, the motto is: Nourish Yourself, Honour Your Voice, Write Your Stories. To honour your voice, you need to be in a space that feels safe to write the stories waiting to be expressed and to give free rein to your imagination. Guidelines set down with intention help us to create that space together.

The wonderful image you see is a painting by Sheila Norgate, a visual artist, writer, and performer based in Nanaimo, with the title of “She sings because she has a song.” I love the title and it’s perfect for musing about voice.

I watched a video by Sheila on her website, in which she focused on voice when she talked about her forty years as a self-taught artist. She didn’t continue taking art courses due to some health issues in 1985 (she got all A’s in the first term!) and realized later that her voice could be drowned out by other people’s expectations.

Sheila was represented by various art galleries through the years and finally separated the world of commerce from the “house of my creative voice.” There’s less tolerance for risk in art making when financial stability is a goal.

“Risk must be at the centre of any creative voice if it hopes to burn hot enough to scorch the impurities of the ego” Sheila says.

Taking risks with one’s creativity and developing one’s voice isn’t always possible when having it silenced by educators or the marketplace. People have been known to go with what they know sells in an effort to gain some financial stability.

Whatever the challenges, our voice is unique to each of us. As Mary Pipher said in her book Writing to Change the World: “You have something to say that no one else can say. Your history, your unique sensibilities, your sense of place, and your language bestow upon you a singular authority.”

“Who but you can describe the hollyhocks in your grandmother’s backyard, or the creek outside of town that you fished as a child, or the way it felt to be the only person of color at your college? Who but you can tell about the faces at the soup kitchen, or in the burn unit?”

My poetry mentor, the late Patrick Lane, also made note of your own authority in a piece he wrote called “Meditation – Authority” which he gave out at one of his many poetry retreats.

Patrick said a beginning writer doesn’t trust her own voice. That’s “because it resembles no one else’s . . . all a writer’s doubts, all their low self-esteem, rises up when presented with our own utterance. The solution is often to imitate others who we think are more accomplished. And indeed, imitation can teach us much, but in the end we are left with our own heart and soul, our own unique and remarkable selves. It is from there the poem will arise in all its tawdry elegance, dressed as it is in wondrous rags.”

“What we must come to is authority,” Patrick wrote, “a taking upon ourselves the rich voice that is in us and acknowledging it; to say what must be said in spite of ourselves, admit to what is both right and wrong in us and make of those choices a witness to the world. Each of us has a voice. We find it when we step past imitation and create out of our own experience, spiritual, emotional, and physical. It is there we find the authority of our selves. At the heart of authority is integrity. What we risk most is our own truth found in ‘the foul rag and bone shop of the heart,’ as Yeats so eloquently wrote. It is of the world.”

Patrick Lane was a poet, novelist and memoirist. He wrote: “All poems are a musical score for the voice. The poem rises to deliberate song. It is not casual whistling, not humming tunelessly in a state of distraction. Each sound, each musical phrase, creates an integrity of mood and so creates the feeling we are trying to elicit.  Authority is probity, a strict honesty. Authority is a private voice we overhear inside ourselves. Where authority is found we find knowledge and a truth (not the truth). “

Mary Pipher wrote: “This offering of the library of self can be called voice. Voice is everything we are, all that we have observed, the emotional chords that are uniquely ours – all our flaws and all of our strengths, expressed in the words that best reflect us. Voice is like a snowflake – complicated, beautiful, and individual. It is essence of self, distilled and offered in service to the world.”

As Patrick said, your voice resembles no one else’s. Here’s what the late Annie Dillard wrote in The Writing Life: “Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment. ‘The most demanding part of living a lifetime as an artist is the strict discipline of forcing oneself to work steadfastly along the nerve of one’s own most intimate sensitivity.’ Anne Truitt, the sculptor, said this. Thoreau said it another way: know your own bone. ‘Pursue, keep up with, circle round and round your life . . . . Know your own bone: gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw at it still.’ “

As one of my poet friends, Martha Royea, said: “We have voices and need to fall in love with them.”

Here are some words to leave you with on the subject of voice. They’re from a Tewa prayer:      

Within and around the earth, within and around

the hills, within and around the mountains,

your authority returns to you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some have said that we teach what we need to learn and that could be true. In fact, I’ll declare it true! I’ve learned so much from being a writing mentor and a facilitator of writing circles.

In the late nineties, I set out to have companions for my writing practice and by providing space for others, I provided it for myself. We are encouraged by one another and gain confidence in taking further risks in our writing.

I’ve continued to go to writing workshops taught by others. I appreciate exploring various forms of writing which I share whether by mentoring one-on-one or in the writing circles. The various writing resources I’ve written wouldn’t have been done without the inspiration from mentoring others and having mentors.

Through the years my mentors have included Lee Maracle, Christina Baldwin, Ann Linnea, Patrick Lane, and Lorna Crozier. When I first met Lee in a fiction workshop, I learned how writing is all-encompassing. “How will this help my writing?” I learned to ask.

Christina and Ann led a circle practicum in Ontario when I still lived there and for five days we immersed ourselves in the circle, learning all aspects of it including guidelines, a structure, and how each member of it is a leader in the circle. I was never a fan of writing workshops and classes (often at community colleges) where each participant offered feedback to one’s writing. Some writers were crushed by those comments and didn’t continue writing. I’m grateful to have learned from Christina and Ann, including reading their books, how to create a “story space” with intention and “four laws of respect.”

The late Patrick Lane was a fine poet and mentor and attending poetry retreats with him was an amazing gift. We poets had an opportunity to work with Patrick one-on-one as he looked at a poem we had just written, offering suggestions and telling stories from his life along the way.

Lorna Crozier, Patrick’s wife and now widow, leads poetry retreats and we meld the memories of Patrick’s teaching with her keen eye and sparkling mind in the same setting on Lake Cowichan, on Vancouver Island, B.C.

Phil Cousineau included a chapter on “The Mythic Power of Mentoring: From Odysseus to Zorba” in his book Once and Future Myths: The Power of Ancient Stories in our Lives. He says: “The mentor, as opposed to the guru, is the one who is there to help you make up your own mind, light your own fire, unfold your own myth. True mentorship draws out your mind, draws out your hidden qualities, puts the bellows to the soul, fans the flame, develops the gold that the mentor is trying to draw out.”

Helping you “unfold your own myth” is a powerful gift as a mentor. I also appreciate what Phil says here: “What is distinctive about mentorship, in contrast to all other forms of teaching and guidance, is the concern for the spiritual life. To draw out the soul is the mythic vision for education at every imaginable level.”

I’m grateful to be reminded of that concern for the spiritual life. Since my early days of reading Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg, I have considered writing a spiritual practice. And what is spirit? Something that brings you fully alive as Brother David Steindl-Rast has said.

In a conversation with Joseph Campbell, Phil Cousineau writes that “Joe” said: “The teacher just gives you information . . generally without a clue about the difference between it and wisdom. . . .Now the mentor is the one who helps you find your own way. But you have to be open; you have to ask questions, you can’t pretend to have all the answers. That takes guts, real guts.”

Phil Cousineau believes that mentors, whether writers, artists, teachers, coaches and fishermen, share something in common. “I believe they resemble what the ancient Irish called anam cara, ‘soul friends.’ They are trusted because the young people in their charge know they have their best interests in mind. These mentors are committed to sustaining the relationship, often for years at a time . . . These soul-guides display an ability to share their gifts of wisdom, but in a literally playful manner; they play with ideas, virtue, insight, wisdom, compassion, even rebellion and defiance, because their deepest concern is for the souls of the young people around them, who secretly long to hear from someone who cares, someone who knows when to let go and say, with a firm but velvet touch, Now is the time for you to become yourself.”

Some have considered me a mentor as they have attended writing circles I have facilitated. Others have read my book Writing Home: A Whole Life Practice and I mentored them through a nine-month writing journey.

I still facilitate writing circles and offer one-to-one mentoring following a PDF version of Writing Home which is now out of print in book form. I also work with writers who are writing their stories from life in the form of a memoir. I’m honoured by the mentoring relationship and feel this is an important way to nourish yourself as a writer. Having a mentor support your writing process is a way to keep your writing “a whole life practice.”

If you’d like to learn about the one-to-one mentoring I offer, you can have a look here: https://www.maryannmoore.ca/circles/writing-home/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nourished Writer: Be Part of a Community

Writing is a solitary practice that can really benefit from some time with other writers to receive encouragement and support for the passion you share.

When I facilitated a writing circle in Vernon, B.C. in the spring, I was glad to see poet Lesley-Anne Evans again after many years. She later wrote the following:

I met the lovely Mary Ann Moore many years ago when my neighbour, the poet Heidi Garnett generously invited me to Honeymoon Bay for a poetry retreat with poet Patrick Lane. What a lovely ripple that was.

I recently attended a writing circle that Mary Ann offered at the Vernon Public Library (Okanagan Regional Library) It was a heart-centred, delightful time, with some attendees who had never written a line of poetry before. But this wasn’t about writing poems, rather it was about self-reflection, finding the beloved in ourselves and expressing that in a safe place where nothing is discounted. A good good work.

I very much appreciate Lesley-Anne’s comments, a reminder of the wonderful times we had writing in community on Vancouver Island and learning from master poet Patrick Lane. I also appreciate how Lesley-Anne honoured the time she and I spent with others in self-reflection and “finding the beloved in ourselves.” The safe place is one we create together and I’m glad that Lesley-Anne found that to be the case.

“Friendship and community are the first medicines we require in the Long Dark,” Francis Weller says in his book In the Absence of the Ordinary: Soul Work for Times of Uncertainty. The “Long Dark” is his term for the times we are living in now.

As writers we are all part of a larger community of writers. Gathering with some of them is an enlivening way to support your own practice.

I’ve been facilitating writing circles since 1997 and have come up with what I call the creative components of a circle.

Compassion is a component of a circle created with intention.  Pema Chodron describes compassion as “not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.” (The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times)

Community
Imagine what it would be like to be in a place where we get to live up to our full potential and are supported for it. In the circle, we learn what it’s like to be all we can be through the writing we do and the insights we share.

Container
The circle is a container for sharing stories and with guidelines we can create a necessary structure. As Christina Baldwin wrote in Storycatcher: Making Sense of Our Lives through the Power and Practice of Story:

Story space looks casual when everything is going along compatibly, but when painful stories come forward to be held by a community, we need structure in the space, just as we need structure in the story. We cannot follow the story if it loses its narrative thread; we cannot hold the space if it has not been laid down with intention.

In the writing circles I facilitate, I follow Circle Guidelines from Calling the Circle: The First and Future Culture by Christina Baldwin.

Conversation
We need to sit down and listen, not talk louder, but more quietly, and to do that we need one another’s help.

Creativity
In the Writing Life women’s circles I facilitate as well as all the others I’ve offered through the years, creativity is evident in the activities we engage in. Using lines of other writers as prompts, objects, music, images can help as well as the alchemy created because we’re together. Gathering with others offers an opportunity to share what you’ve been working on or proudly declaring that you’ve been continuing your writing practice.

Ceremony
An important aspect of one’s solitary writing practice as well as in the circle is ceremony. In a circle as stories are shared and issues discussed, we enter the realm of the sacred. The candle is lit. Some incense or sage may be burning. Also in the centre of the circle is a “talking piece,” and the Tibetan ting sha that I ring for the intentional beginning of our circle.

Celebration
There’s a need in our society to honour ourselves and that can be done in the circle to acknowledge someone’s birthday or other rites of passage. When it comes to writing together in the circle, we comment on what resonated with us, echoing back words and phrases. An atmosphere of celebration helps us continue, go deeper, feel good about immersing ourselves in our life stories and gaining insight there.

Composting
What we may see as scraps for the compost pile can become nourishing for the soil/soul. Words become sentences, paragraphs, chapters – a book. The ideas percolate for awhile and as various elements come in to assist them, sparkling imaginings result. Out of what may have seemed like wasted time are the ideas, the daydreams that lead you to the stories waiting to be told.

Coming Home
Sitting in a circle with others where you can be with whatever feelings you are having at the time is a gift to you and your circle companions. Simply sitting and listening to ourselves can bring us home to ourselves. That connection to ourselves helps us to reach out and listen to others, to welcome them into the special place we create together.

Centre
As we look to the centre of ourselves, we look to the centre of the circle for strength, guidance, and wisdom. The centre is a great spirit. It’s like the middle of the day, the middle of everything. A time of opportunity and a time of crisis. In the centre is the beginning, the end and the void.

The circle with its various components is like a flower with the petals making up the whole bloom. The circle is a community that honours intentional conversation, a rich environment for creativity and composting.

I’ve been offering writing circles for almost thirty years and nowadays I’m glad I can connect with people near and far via Zoom.

From October 6 to 27, 2026, I’ll be offering a Writing Life women’s circle called “In Your Own Words (for four Tuesdays on Zoom). The time is 10 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. Pacific. You’re welcome to join with whatever writing experience you have. We’ll write from our lives and create writing lives. You’ll find the topics for each week and further information here:

 

Writing Life Circle – ZOOM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The word “discipline” is often mentioned when it comes to describing a writing practice. Writers give themselves a word count to aim for or a designated amount of time. I prefer the word “devotion.” The word “discipline” conjures up diligence and reprimand whereas “devotion” implies dedication, faithfulness as well as fondness.

“Our methodology is not as important as our devotion,” Betsy Warland says in Breathing the Page: Reading the Act of Writing. When I read Betsy’s words, I heartily agreed.

My writing practice, to which I am devoted, includes lots of reading, attending workshops and retreats, meeting with other writers, imagining in all sorts of different forms, as well as writing.

Laraine Herring who wrote On Being Stuck, makes note of devotion as well: “If you choose writing as one of your acts of devotion, prepare to be a student of its wisdom as long as you show up for its gifts. Writing will put you forward into places you can’t yet see. It will bring with it the challenges you need to become more fully alive and awake. It will bring with it the obstacles you need to grow.”

Time without any obligations is important for writing as well as desire. Sometimes the desire doesn’t manifest into words on the page. It can mean ideas floating in the head. Quiet time is ideal for that sort of imagining and the forming of seeds that aren’t quite ready to blossom.

Imagining in the quiet we create for ourselves is just right for people who are “makers” as opposed to “producers.” We makers don’t have the need to always produce a physical product. Writing is so much about the process. Is this a book or is this an ongoing process, I asked myself recently.

Makers and producers are described in Making Time: A New Vision for Crafting a Life Beyond Productivity by Maria Bowler. In my own mind, I think about makers and producers in terms of intentions versus goals. An intention is something to stretch towards, enjoying the process along the way, without an end product necessarily in mind. A goal means the future is the focus so that the producer’s current practice is all about the future rather than the present.

“Ironically, by being in touch with and acting from your true intentions, you become more effective in reaching your goals than when you act from wants and insecurities.,” says Phillip Moffitt in an article available online called “The Heart’s Intention.”

Melissa Febos referred to devotion as well in her book Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative: “I cannot imagine nurturing a devotion to any practice more consistently than one which yields the reward of transformation, the assurance of lovability, and the eradication of regret. No professional ambition could possibly matter more than the freedom to return, again and again.”

Consider your writing practice a much-valued friend. Even when we haven’t seen some beloved friends for awhile, we pick up where we left off when we see one another again.

 

 

On Wednesday, September 16, 2026 from 10 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. Pacific, ’ll be facilitating a Writing Life women’s circle with the theme of “Writing as Devotion” on Zoom. A 21-page PDF workbook called Devotion & Delight: Honouring Your Writing Practice is available to those who sign up for the “Writing as Devotion” circle. You can find some more details about it as well as an earlier circle on Thursday, September 10, 2026 with the theme of “Permission to Create” and an October four-week series, here: https://www.maryannmoore.ca/circles/writing-life-circle-zoom/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Summer issue of The New Quarterly, ten years ago, I was happy to see an interview with Susan Musgrave in which she said that writing for her is about the process, or at least that’s her intent.

Susan said: “Writing, for me, is, and should be, about process. But we live in a product-oriented time. It’s always, ‘What is your next book going to be about?’ when you are on a book tour, promoting your latest tour de force.”

Earlier that year (2016), Susan said she had a “real epiphany.” She set herself a task of writing a poem a day first thing in the morning. She was inspired by a daily reading from Mark Nepo’s The Book of Awakening. Susan chose one word or phrase in the teaching, and wrote whatever was triggered by that word or words. She gave herself permission to write what she wanted to “even if it verges on the sentimental or self-indulgent, whatever. The astonishing thing is, I’ve had a whole month without being depressed. This is a rare occurrence for me. What’s even more astonishing is that I should be so surprised. I’ve known, since I was fourteen, that poetry keeps me ‘sane.’ Why do I forget, time after time, what it is I need to do?”

It may be that some of those morning poems made their way into a published book of poetry. If not, they may have led the way. Most important, was the permission Susan gave herself to write whatever came up on a particular morning and to enjoy the process. Keeping her “sane” would have been the best gift of all.

 

Silence

I’m thinking of Mary Oliver’s poem “Praying” which I’ve sometimes read at the beginning of a writing circle to take the pressure off: In the writing circles, I like us to think about the process rather than the product or outcome.

. . . .
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

The other voice could be God, in whatever form that word represents for you, or the voice could be yours: the one that doesn’t often have a chance to be heard until you enter silence on your own.

As Christine Valters Paintner has said: “Process means following the flow of what is unfolding in the moment. It means being open to a journey of discovery as we create instead of thinking we know where we are heading. It means getting out of our own way.”

Christine, who is a poet, part-time hermit, and a mystic with a website called Abbey of the Arts, says “It is a lot like prayer.”

Insights

While you may not be working on a project, you can write about your insights. I do that all the time in a journal that contains ordinary happenings, dreams, plans, and ideas.

Sarah Selecky, in her book Story is a State of Mind: Writing and the Art of Creative Curiosity, writes about “tracking progress” which, in one form, on some days, could be tracking your insights. It may be you have gained insight on a walk, while watching a movie, or ordering something at your local café. Reading books has offered me the most insight. I do a lot of post-it flagging in books as well as pencil marks, if I own the book, and I always make copious notes.

 

 

 

 

Inspiration

Some writers with projects on the go keep a separate record of their questions, insights, and problems to solve. I’ve been making notes about a project I’m calling “The Risks We Take for Love” which has me exploring emotional risks as well as those we take with our writing.

I went back to an essay by Arleen Paré, “To Carry My Family in My Imperfect Head” in a book called A Family by Any Other Name: Exploring Queer Relationships edited by Bruce Gillespie. I was inspired to write some of my story by reading Arleen’s story and began to write a passage in the third person. These passages in my “process journal” may not make their way into THE BOOK but they are very helpful for remembering what happened, figuring things out, and honouring the process.

A Letter to Yourself

A “process journal” can be about one’s writing life such as plans and ideas for projects, drafts of poems, disappointments, accomplishments, fun recollections of getting together with other writers for a workshop or to talk about their writing lives. The process reminds me of the “checking in” we do at the beginning of a writing circle.

The late Louise DeSalvo says in her book The Art of Slow Writing: Reflections on Time, Craft, and Creativity: “One of the most important items in my writer’s toolbox is my process journal.” She had first learned about keeping one when she heard about Sue Grafton, author of the Kinsey Milhone mysteries, saying at a talk she gave that she kept a separate journal for each novel.

Each of Sue’s journals was about four times longer than the novel itself. Before she began work, Sue would write an entry to record her feelings, especially if feeling anxious, “a brief account of daily events, helpful dreams, ideas about the direction her work might take.”

Louise describes Sue’s process: [Grafton] describes what’s troublesome in a scene, a puzzle she can’t resolve, lines she’s imagined but doesn’t know how to use, snippets of dialogue. Grafton maintains that every solution to her work’s challenges occurs, not when she’s composing, but in her writer’s journal. There, she steps back and reflects upon her work; there, she articulates problems and solves them.”

Diana Raab includes an essay by Sue Grafton (1940-2017) in Writers and Their Notebooks. Sue started keeping a “working journal” with her book “A” Is for Alibi and began to refine her method with “B” Is for Burglar. From then on she kept a daily log of work in progress “like a letter to myself, detailing every idea that occurs to me as I proceed.”

Louise DeSalvo also kept a process journal to plan a project as well as to list books she wanted to read, subjects she wanted to write about, to capture insights about her work in progress, to discuss her relationship to her work (what’s working and what’s not), to sketch scenes, to think about the work’s structure, and to puzzle through challenges and possible solutions.

 

Reflective Witnessing

As Louise DeSalvo wrote: “Our process journals are where we engage in the nonjudgmental, reflective witnessing of our work. Here, we work at defining ourselves as active, engaged, responsible, patient writers.”

Virginia Woolf kept diaries, which were published, describing the novels she was working on in the midst of daily life. John Steinbeck wrote letters to his editor about his novel-in-progress and those letters were published in book form.

Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden letters, first published in 1969, contains letters John Steinbeck wrote to Pascal Covici, his friend and editor at The Viking Press. The letters were a way for Steinbeck to warm up to his day’s writing. He would write the letters on the left-hand page of a notebook with the facing pages filled with the text of East of Eden.

A warming up and a being with could describe the process journal. There may be no “project” to get on with. Your writing may be all about you and your life in process. Sometimes the journal could be in the form of a letter to a friend, whether sent or unsent. Or, how about a blog like this one? It can be reassuring to know there’s someone else sharing in some reflective witnessing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It may be that we avoid getting back to our writing practice as we’re anxious about what will come up in the silence. Creating a ceremony as a container for your writing practice offers something predictable in the realm of creativity which can take us into the unexpected. (You can also see my previous post on “Your Own Tea House Practice.”)

In Mastering Creative Anxiety by Eric Maisel, he writes: “To create and to deal with all the anxiety that comes with creating, you must acknowledge and accept that anxiety is part of the process.” He also says: “Since anxiety accompanies both states – creating and not creating – why not choose creating?”

One of his “Twenty-Two Techniques for Mastering Anxiety” is Ceremonies and Rituals. He believes “creating and using a ceremony or ritual is a simple but powerful way to reduce anxiety.”

My love of ceremony relates to the rituals of earth-based practices and an acknowledgement of our ancestors cheering us on. I may burn some sage and greet my guides at my writing table. In writing circles I facilitate, we create a container following circle guidelines and a ceremony by beginning with a poem and lighting a candle.

Invite fear and anxiety in

Acknowledge and name the discomfort: the sore back, the queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, the desire to be anywhere else but at your writing desk. The creative person lives through the tension, looks at the uncomfortable feelings, names them, records them and shares the insights with others. (That last sentence was adapted from Witness to the Fire: Creativity & the Veil of Addiction by Linda Schierse Leonard.)

Breathe

To become centred, focused, present at any time, anywhere, follow Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh’s suggestion for three breaths. This is something we do in the circle as well:

the first breath to let go,
the second to stay here,
and the third to surrender to what’s next.

Relax

I’m a fan of the work of Jon Kabat-Zinn who developed Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction. My favourite is the body scan for deep relaxation included on his Mindfulness Meditation CDs. Listening to his voice helps to give me permission to take time for myself away from interruptions. Without the CD, you can simply lie on the floor and drop into it, letting every part of you relax. Savassana, the corpse pose in yoga, is a beautiful way to let go. (Yes, I still have these CDs!)

 

 

Meditate

Meditation, as far as I know, is accepting how you are feeling right now. (That’s what I learned from Jon Kabat-Zinn.) The resulting feeling is one of acceptance and possibility. Meditation helps you to accept your motivation and your non-motivation. I appreciate loving-kindness meditation which is repeating something like the following metta or something you’ve made up yourself:

May I be filled with loving-kindness.
May I be well.
May I be peaceful and at ease.
May I be happy.

 Here are some other phrases from Wayne Muller’s chapter, “Fear and Faith,” in Legacy of the Heart: The Spiritual Advantages of a Painful Childhood:

May I be balanced and at peace.
May I be undisturbed by the changing events of my life
and the world around me.
May I have faith in myself.
May I have faith in the strength of the spirit within me.

Affirm

“The Artist’s Creed” from Marry Your Muse: Making a Lasting Commitment to Your Creativity by Jan Phillips is very affirming. Here is one of the beliefs I particularly like:

I believe that what truly matters in the making of art
is not what the final piece looks like or sounds like,
not what it is worth or not worth,
but what newness gets added to the universe
in the process of the piece itself becoming.

 Animate the Body

Take a walk, dance in your living room, drum, sing, shout. Dance to one of Gabrielle Roth’s CDs or to your favourite lively music. Let your body guide you in spontaneous movement.

 Offer Your Writing

“Envisioning your story as your personal gift is an acknowledgement of the significance and beauty of the work you are doing,” says Jill Jepson who wrote Writing as a Sacred Path: A Practical Guide to Writing with Passion and Purpose.

Begin by offering your story. You could say aloud, for example: “This story is my gift to my grandmother and grandfather.”

Second, keep your gift in mind as you write.

Three, conclude by offering your story. You can “light a candle and hold the story up toward the sky or close to your heart. Infuse it with your love. If you have a home altar, you can place it there for a time. . . Whatever you can do to ritualize your offering will confirm that you are bestowing a gift that is not only priceless, but unique in all the world.”

Fear and anxiety can come in different forms: physical manifestations, avoidance, or any number of ways unique to each individual. When ceremony and a connection to something larger than ourselves become an essential part of our creative journey, I feel we are able to make it through the tension and discomfort knowing our work is healing to ourselves, our community and the earth.

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened.
Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Take down the dulcimer.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Rumi (as rendered by Coleman Barks)