“I wanted to be a rock drummer before I finally settled into teaching for a career. And when I retired I realized that dream was no longer feasible.” An old friend on the path of personal/ spiritual growth recently shared this insight from his home outside of Portland, OR. I met this guy back in the 80s at a zen sesshin at Mt Baldy, CA. We instantly recognized in each other kindred souls on the path and over the years frequently shared, argued, and discussed our youthful ideals and how to apply them in our thirties and beyond. A peripatetic sort, he was raised in the East Bay of San Francisco, attended college in San Diego, completed an MFA in Boulder, and ultimately settled down to a high school teaching career in Oregon and stopped writing.
Our tumultuous friendship has always offered the quality I need in close friendships—inquiry and truth telling. Not an easy skanking connection, but the kind that pushes me to think deeply and honestly about work, relationships, and life. Zenman (not his real name) doesn’t have time for superficial small talk. He digs for the deeper story, meaning, and feeling. A facile, but sometimes cranky, practitioner of what Daniel Goleman calls narrow and big focus, he has little patience for lazy thinking and societal shibboleths. He gets down, present, and authentic in every conversation and yet concurrently maintains awareness of how it all fits into a systemic big picture.
In a recent typically wide ranging and rambling conversation, he mentioned that he had picked up writing again because he couldn’t go back to that youthful dream of rock drumming. After retiring with the psychic and time demands of work gone, something called him to create again. These days he is writing and sharing new and old pieces. I said, “Right on! That is it!” The urge to express was always there and now he has the time to do it. Updating the dream (dropping the rock drummer fantasy) opened the space for living a new/ old dream. Now, Zenman writes regularly and soulfully.
What is this urge to create? I experience it as the impulse to drop my awareness from my head to my heart, in other words dropping analysis. Once I get going, it resembles a dam that is filled with water that must be drained. A little stream of water relieves the pressure, but draining the reservoir of water reveals a lot of detritus that has clogged the system. When I practice my creative arts, a flood of unexpected feelings, memories, and ideas are revealed. Letting the water out by writing a poem or making a painting satisfies me in a way that reading another book or going to a music concert or playing tennis can’t. It happens differently in painting from writing poetry. Regardless the creative flow and energy satisfies my soul. At times procrastination prevails with the Resistance that Steven Pressfield describes in The War of Art and blocks expression til I take that first step and start. Then the old maxim —The hotter the battle, the sweeter the victory—spurs me on. Today I won the battle with my old friend procrastination, but tomorrow is another day.