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| ISSUE NO. 729 |
| SPEAKING OF HOPE . . . has me thinking about the role of creativity in the long evolution toward collective liberation. I must be clear from the beginning that we're talking about the kind of creativity that everyone possesses, in their own unique way - not the hallowed territory of a select few who are deemed 'artistic' by one hierarchical power or another. Amongst a group of creative folks last week, I was presented with an alternative to thinking about what I want to create or produce, or what my 'goals' are. Instead I was asked to think about: what are the feelings I want to be feeling, most of the time? (this useful framework is from Danielle LaPorte) Almost immediately after that exercise, I came across Yumi Sakugawa's suggestion: "Instead of asking yourself, 'How can I become a more disciplined artist?' maybe you can ask yourself, What relationship do I want with myself?" One of the frustrating things about creativity is that I want to be feeling creative all the time. I think the same is true of love - who doesn't want to be feeling love all the time? And lately, I've added hope to that list. It feels terrible to be without hope, at any given moment, and I don't think I'm alone in wondering what's wrong with me when I don't have access to it. When we love deeply, there is an equal amount of fear: what if we lose what we love? But love never goes away. We are taught that it does, often by the people we trusted to love us the most or in the best way, but really what has happened is that a painful experience has prevented us from seeing the truth of love all around us. Creativity is like that - it doesn't go away. It's abundant and all around us, but we believe that without the external approval or validation that our creativity is 'productive' or 'successful', it must be absent. And then we tell a story about its absence, which seems a lot more believable than the fact that it's been there all along. In Lynda Barry's essential book, What It Is, she writes and draws about how, somewhere in adolescence, every growing human stops creating for the sake of creating, and begins to ask two questions: "Do you like it?" and "Is it good?" The external definition of creativity is a burdensome weight. It makes us feel that we have to be absolutely, visibly sparking with brilliant ideas all the time, or we have to be embodying the larger-than-life examples of 'success' that we see in some creative people. The real work of these false impressions is to prevent our creativity, and to keep us afraid of losing what we love. Our relationship to creativity is our relationship to ourselves. That's why it is so powerful, and why "in the particular is contained the universal" (James Joyce). Once you can see that, it matters a whole lot less what exactly you are going to create, or how. Connecting with the truth of creativity happening all the time, we can begin to define what feelings we want to feel most, and the relationship we want to have with ourselves - and, by extension, others. Just like love and creativity, hope is abundant - within and around us all the time. But we can't demand hope from ourselves or others. Because we're human, we have to go through the regular ups and downs of despair, apathy, and confusion at times. When hope, love, or creativity are hidden from you, they are not absent - they're like the sun or moon being passed over by a cloud. Even when you are feeling tossed about by waves of painful feelings, you can still tap into the constancy of creativity, in two important ways. The first is by going inward - to rest in the presence of your pain and confusion. Everyone has to sleep sometimes, and dreams are proof that creativity goes on even when we are in total surrender. We can take a break from trying to control or define it. The second way way to tap into creativity when you feel its absence is by going outward: to a favorite book, film, podcast, coworker, or loved one. Or to us, here in this newsletter. GFJ is an act of creativity, love, and hope. If you're reading this, you are part of those vibrant collective forces. We didn't "invent" a good food job, we created a space to organize them with the primary purpose of carrying the invisible threads of what a good food job is, at essence, and what it can do for the life of the worker, the lives of those the work touches, the land, and outward into the web of community support that taps into imagination, creation, care, and power with each other – the life force that connects us all. This is just one act of creation, and it requires collective participation. Each one of you brings a collection of skills, knowledge, emotions, and experience that no other single being on this planet possesses. Knowing that you are constantly in the presence of love, hope, and creativity...what will you make? With Hope, Tay + Dor |
tidbits...resources on anti-racism, environmentalism and food culture AKA stuff we're reading / listening to / watching / noticing / thinking about / captivated by this Tuesday . . . Do One Small Thing . . . Take a walk without any podcast, audio book, or music. Share with us how you participated. |
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