Some Better Than None

As many of you are aware, I’m a fan of The One You Feed podcast.

I can’t overstate how important the low-key approach to the guests and the topics—be they focused on spirituality, creativity, mental health, productivity—results in practical, down-to-earth applicability. Please do yourself the favor of subscribing.

One of the refrains from the show—and I’m quoting host Eric Zimmer and one of the tenets of his coaching program directly—is that ‘doing something is better than doing nothing.'

I’ve been reflecting on this lesson in regards to my creative work (yeah yeah writing and playing drums you already know because I yammer about it constantly on this blog). Being so busy with work and family life, I have to often shove a novel’s worth of composing time into 10 or 15 minute daily increments. Even when I have those 10 or 15 minutes free, I talk myself out of utilizing them because I’m not sitting at the shoreline with my typewriter knocking out my 2000 words a day like another bad imitation of Ernest Hemingway.

Reality is not meshing with my vision and that results not in my doing at least a little daily writing; it results in me doing none.

So, for me, for you, for all of us: some is better than none. Throw out the vision and the unrealistic standards and do the work with the time that you have available.

Not Too Soon

We often delay beginning our creative or spiritual work with the false belief that we must be ‘ready.’

It’s a protective measure, meant to preserve our egos and ward off detectable inadequacies.

I’ve of course been guilty of this same delaying strategy in my own professional life, in my creative life, in what amounts to my spiritual practice. I’ve dallied and delayed, and I’ve put off action by waiting for whatever skills I’m trying to flex to be primed, as if I’d just gone through a Rocky-like training montage out of sight of everyone in order to unveil to a surprised and unsuspecting world just how awesome I am.

Life is made in the doing, in the trying, in the failing and re-trying. We cannot be ready for this. There is certainly prepared, educated, practiced, but ready is something else. Ready is only accomplished in the doing of the thing in real time and with real consequences. Ready is open to the moment, to the nexus of performing work and to being yourself, to struggling and being vulnerable. Ready is being open to failing.

Waiting to be ready, as tantalizing an option at that is, only delays progress. Ready sounds like it’s about the future, but it’s really about the now. And as we all know, now is all we’ve got.

This One You Feed podcast addresses, among several other ideas, the fallacy of being ready in an interview with Srini Rao. Check it out here.

When the Wolves Feed On Us

One more reason you should be listening to the One You Feed podcast is this interview with Jonathan Fields. It’s so full of insight and wisdom, I couldn’t zero in on one idea to focus upon for this blog post.

As so often happens in my life (I’m guessing in yours as well) there is synchronicity between ideas and circumstance – a cacophonous soundtrack of disparate harmonies and counter-rhythms that at first listen are in conflicting keys and time-signatures but will suddenly tune in on the one and resonate deep within us.

For me this week, I’ve been contemplating the more mundane aspects of my day job, of how to integrate the pursuit of money, of how to manage the responsibilities of caring for my family, and of how these essential but problematic components fit in with my art and with my efforts of living a mindful existence. You know, the stuff that we’re all constantly dealing with but that doesn’t warrant a blog post.

And as is typical I didn’t find a ready solution.

But I did notice a shift in my perspective of these weighty issues, issues that given my default I usually take on with a sense of deprivation and fear. I can be as contemporary a male as the next dude, but within my current circumstances, I need to be able to provide my family with a home, medical care, clothes, food. This is my role right now, and I can’t escape that dreadful, gut-punch sensation that I could be doing it better.

Yes, I’m fortunate to have a job. I’m fortunate to at least be close to covering the basic needs of my family, but I struggle with whether this is enough. I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts my very 90s concept that we creatives could work decent day-jobs and still make room for the art, the true passions. The problem (besides the fact that there are fewer and fewer decent day-jobs available) with this approach is that it keeps our creative selves separate from our work selves, it divides parts that are unhealthy to divide. Few of us get to work dream jobs – how many of us even know of occupations that precisely fit our unique brands of crazy? – but I’ve come to believe and to practice that if I let it, my job can be fulfilling if I bring myself to it mindfully.

Mindfulness didn’t work for me this week.

This is the struggle as it’s really happening, I suppose. I can’t breathe away the needs and expectations. I can’t sit with the discontent and the anger. I’m stuck. But the grace here—the growth here—is that I’m conscious of it. Instead of just reacting, I do have a sense of remove that is helping me to recognize, if nothing else, I’m getting caught up in my thoughts and not letting go of the ego investment.

Today, right now, there is at least awareness.

Ambition Gnaws the Paws of Success*: Does Creativity Only Generate from Discontent?

(*With apologies to U2)

Thanks to a coworker’s recommendation, I’ve been catching up on a new podcast called The One You Feed

An engaging topic that hosts Eric Zimmer and Chris Forbes highlight in their latest podcast with ABC News Correspondent Dan Harris is the intersection of mindfulness and ambition.

If you are practicing (and struggling at) being in the NOW, accepting what is here with you as it is, where does orchestrating a long-term artistic/professional/spiritual goal fit?

This got me reflecting on an even deeper question: What drives an artist to create?

Many of the seekers and wanderers I’ve encountered over the years were catapulted onto their trajectories by negative experiences and/or hostile relationships. Many of us have sought within our passions the resolution to old conflicts, wholeness to remake the broken pieces we carry with us, answers to the tragedies we have witnessed or endured.

It’s a familiar trope, right?

But how long can we sustain this reaction to a perceived negative event or toxic relationship as the engine for our creativity? When does relying on pain to fuel our artistic or spiritual endeavors cause us harm or undermine our practices?

I’ve known that I wanted to write—to be an author of stories and books—since I was eight or nine. I was always a dreamer of a kid, stuck inside my imagination, and the divorce of my parents and the departure of my father from my life found me out of synch with many of my classmates and friends. Part of what I was looking for even then was a tacit acceptance. Call it love or appreciation or even adulation, there was an ego-driven need to be identified as a writer so that I could feel better about myself. This neediness only deepened through my adolescence, especially after I discovered music and rock and roll posturing (what Brian Eno calls ‘Negative ambition…the thing you’re pushing against.”) And it stayed strong throughout my twenties.

Something shifted in my thirties and continues to evolve in my forties, though. I got bored of the same negatively-framed narrative I kept repeating to myself. My non-artistic life had—despite my most self-destructive efforts—become a life I enjoyed thanks to my second marriage, my children, my job, my friendships. And as I’ve mentioned before several times in this blog, I gave up writing for a while, and giving up felt wonderful. (In retrospect, giving up the artist-as-damaged-goods paradigm was probably what felt so blissful.)

Eventually, I found I missed writing. I missed the act of creating. As I began again, the impulse to make art came from a different, simpler place – I write because it’s what I do.

None of this happened by design. It was all a result of my usual bumping and flopping about. But somehow the fulfillment I’ve found in my craft has nothing to do with accolades or acknowledgement outside my own skull; it has to do with my relationship to the works themselves. Novels and stories present themselves to me, and I am obligated to do my best to bring them into the world (however slow and excruciating that process may be).

That’s not the end of it, though. I do want to publish my novels and stories, and I do want as many people as possible to read what I’ve written. I don’t deny this ambition. Stories are meant to be shared, and if I can add my own to the many others already out there while maybe making a little money doing so, well, that would be gravy. 

So I come back around to the question raised in the podcast: where does ambition fit?

The advice that Harris repeats—by way of what he’s read and studied—is to not invest in the outcome. 

I don’t know what I think about this. How the hell do we not invest in the outcomes of an endeavor that we’ve spent hundreds of hours partaking in? I don’t care how egoless any of us pretend to be, we all invest in the outcomes. That’s just what we do.

But there you go: Work hard, do your best, and don’t invest in the outcomes. Chop wood. Carry water.

There's more, though. I have found all these accidental friends and compatriots and family while partaking in the most challenging endeavors of my life: adolescence, writing, parenting, coping with anxiety. The lesson I learn and re-learn (and re-learn) is that if you keep the frustrations and the struggles to yourself, you’re not going to get anywhere. If you share, others will come forward. As ever, if you open yourself to the life around you, and you allow yourself to be vulnerable and say, “This is who I am” others will respond, most of them positively.

Paths are not meant to be wandered alone. Loneliness is a fabrication of ego, too, this thinking that we are somehow unique in our successes or our failures (especially our failures). Be here now, yes, and more importantly, be here now together.