If you're not creating, you're dying

To create doesn’t mean you need to be a Picasso. It means, at first, to simply entangle oneself in the world around you. And then to provide an offering through this relationship.

This has been a pretty hard year. Finances. Family in the hospital. Starting school again. And all the other ups and downs that come with waking up every day and deciding to do something. Why get up? Why try? I roll the boulder up and it rolls back down. And as I watch it descend, I ask myself: Why continue if there’s no point and success isn’t even guaranteed? It’s that tricky question that plagues the depressed, the dejected and perhaps all of us. What’s the point?

Often, when I get to this point, I feel like a fool, an idiot. I have no idea what I’m doing. This crawling in the dark towards some sort of certainty or salvation, fumbling about and sometimes getting stuck…is this all there is to look forward to? Just as soon as I catch a glimpse of myself, the fog drifts in and I am once again lost. Who am I? And what do I do? And where the hell am I?

I suppose this is why you pay attention to your breath when you meditate. Yes, my breath tells me little. It gives me no information as it pertains to my relationships, the certainty of the future, the meaningless pain of my past. But it does clue me in on one thing. It tells me that I’m alive. I’m breathing. And I am here, whatever here is.

And what do I do while I’m here? I feel like an idiot just asking that question. Everyone around me is in a great big buzz, moving from A to B, discussing vacation plans, having families. Do they know something I don’t? What’s wrong with me? It’s as if the natural order of things has been entirely turned upside down and only I can see it. I am here. And I am lost.

On a random Tuesday, thousands of years ago, some cave-dwelling Da Vinci dragged charcoal across stone and, from then on, humanity has endlessly sought to unite and merge and grow through the world it inhabits. Song, paint, dance and prose, the most confused and passionate of our species has stumbled blindly in search of answers, casting into existence bits of themselves to a world utterly silent. And beautifully indifferent. Is this why we create? By giving a bit of ourselves to the great beyond, we can ensure that yes, we are here. We aren’t lost.

My parents are both artists. When I was young, I thought this was a normal job, like a doctor or lawyer. But I learned, mostly by the weird looks I’d get when I told other kids that my mom and dad made art for a living, that it was not normal by any means. And as I grew older, I realized just how vulnerable and brave such a career is. To lay yourself out there, this part of you, to the unreliable judgement of society. Any moment, the art market could tank. What was once working has since changed. What people want is a fickle beast, hard to understand and impossible to predict.

How could my parents do this as a career? Where is the stability? My dad explained something to me one time that really stuck. He pointed out the absolute mess of dripping paint and scratches that layered the outskirts of where he would place the canvas. Splatters of oil and wax. Black ash and pencil marks. The scars of birth. To my Dad, this mess was just as much a part of the painting as the finished product. Each mistake, each accident and blemish were merely a partial element to the story that is creation, a story that could not be told without struggle and conflict, confusion and mishap. The tension between certainty – that ill-fated sense that one is going in the right direction – and a predictable disorientation – followed by painting things over, erasing hours of work and staring blankly at your own limits – this is the rhythm of creation.

And the truth is there is no finished product. Each painting, each brush stroke, each book he had read, every fireside conversation and childhood memory and genetic event, all loaded onto this great creation. Each painting was merely a piece of a larger work – the work that is self-expression and, hopefully, self-discovery. Tears and laughs and heartbreak and dismay and anxious approval piled onto each other. To create is to engage willingly in the natural impulse of being, that is, in other words, to become. To grow. To struggle. To mess up and fall and get up.

But why do it? That all sounds kinda painful. I guess it goes back to that question of why do anything. Maybe making things is the most honest answer to this question. We are cast into the world with no apparent reason. In response, the most honest thing to do is to cast something out into the world with equally little purpose other than its own existence. It’s an honest answer, and the more we do it the more we learn about ourselves. And just as important, the more we create, the more we learn about each other. Our naïve acts of self-expression reverberate and transmute through the souls of those other lost creatures, offering a ration of meaning, a glimpse of purpose. And through this, if you’re lucky enough, a warm hug. I listen to a song that says just the right thing. I watch a film that speaks to my very being. And for a moment, I am in cahoots with humanity. I’m a little less alone. I’m alive.

And I guess that’s why we do things. Whether you’re an accountant or a doctor or a store clerk, you have the potential to create. To create doesn’t mean you need to be a Picasso. It means, at first, to simply entangle oneself in the world around you. And then to provide an offering through this relationship. So engage, truly and earnestly. Dive in! It’s scary, but do you have a choice? If you’re not creating, you’re dying.