Dear Pneuma,

Thanks for sticking with me.  In some ways, all of this reflection makes it seem as though I can't just live spontaneously; as though I have to reteach myself to walk, talk, eat, sleep, even breath every morning.  From one angle, it is truly ridiculous and rather funny.  Certainly, I should be able to at least wake up and breathe without thinking about it.  

I do try to remember what it was like in third grade simply to be-to show up, act, think thoughts, feel feelings and never concern myself with anything beyond that particular moment.  Yet somewhere, sometime, I started asking this question: "What does it all mean," and while, for years, the answer had seemed to be, "Nothing," one day, the answer came back "Something."  Now I simply can't stop asking it.

So, I dissect each action and I vivisect every thought I catch, but since I discovered my heart, try as I might, it won't come apart for me.  When I question its motives, it stubbornly blinks at me.  When I try to change its mind, it smiles and continues with its own plans.  What's more, this heart of mine is crazy.  I simply cannot make heads or tails out of it.  It asks me to do things that have no benefit.  It asks me to make choices without seeing options.  It tells me to trust.  

Following its lead is the scariest thing I have ever done (actually: it told me to jump out of an airplane, and I did!!).  In doing so, I've been taught the most sacred, sensuous and exciting dance steps I have ever learned.  This is why I reflect, read books, meditate, question, analyze, and constantly check in.  This is why I am never really sure I am sane.   I spent years tuning out my heart.  I spent years distrusting what is in me.  I spent years cultivating a life template that would let me avoid the question: "what does it all mean?"  It is hard to undo the formatting and replace it with a skin that is a better reflection of me.  

Thanks for sticking by me as I continue to try,

Cobalt Dreams  

Dear Pneuma,

When I close my eyes and shut off the white noise, I am in a cobalt blue space, alone but for the knowledge of God.  In that space, I am not defined as someone's subset.  I am not bound in duty or obligation to any set of rules.  I am alive; I am free; I am myself without trappings. 

I open my eyes, and I am suddenly in a space with furniture, decorations, tools, and rooms.  I am suddenly a being connected to other beings, each of whom defines themselves in relationship with me.  There are duties, obligations, rules, and trappings.  I am alive; I am bound; I am clothed.

What is right and good when the free being in the cobalt space yearns to go one direction, and the bound being in the defined space is asked to go another?  Sages, intuitives, and self-help gurus suggest the free being is the true being, and that only in honoring the true being can life be lived to the full.  Yet, in having friends and family, the bound being is connected to others; and sages, aesthetes, and the covenanted community suggest that the bound being is the true being,  and only in honoring the true being can life be lived to the full.

So, is the artist, whose art serves others, the free being or the bound being?  What is the worth of the art if others do not appreciate it?  What is the worth of the art if it does not come from a place of free integrity?  Which is first?  Which concern takes precedence?  In arts practice, does one strive to become a part of human community or to stand apart from human community?

Arrg.  Who thought it was a good idea to give me the ability to choose?  

With Love,

Cobalt Dreams