Enriching through Ritual

If you haven’t read Walking on Water by the incomparable Madeline L’Engle, I’m envious of the experience that awaits you. If you have, message me immediately, so we can geek out together. The Wrinkle in Time author–to put it simply–rocked my world in her exploration of the interplay between faith and art, forever altering how I approached my own creative endeavors. Seriously, get yourself a copy of this book.

One of L’Engle’s most startling observations to me was in calling art “a journey to wholeness.” This threw me through quite the loop–though not a bad one–when I first read it. I felt a sense of disorienting, overwhelming relief. After all, if art is a journey towards wholeness, then it can’t be all of who I am, can it? I think I can safely say that I’m not the only one here who has struggled with making their art their whole identity. And I don’t think my art has ever been better for it. L’Engle (or Saint Madeline, as I like to call her) showed me why. If I see art as all that I am, then I can’t tell a whole story, because I’m not in touch with all of me. The journey through my art should be holistic. Should be holy. Like a pilgrim’s journey. And a pilgrim’s journey isn’t done in a day. It’s consistent. It’s a ritual.

In the last couple years, I’ve started coming to my art the way I would come to a prayer. Consistently, best with intention rather than obligation, and with as open and honest a view of myself as possible. This includes having grace with myself, which makes room for consistency–contrary to what some may think. There are people who will tell you, or lead you to believe, that grace is just allowing yourself to be lazy, and if you aren’t going to regularly lock yourself in a cabin, living a Spartan existence until you crank out something of meaning, then are you really an artist? Don’t believe them. Sure, your goal is ultimately to make your work as good as you can possibly make it. And bouts of solitude and focus–even lightning bolts of inspiration–have their place. There have been a few occasions in which a whole story has come to me, and I have stopped everything (once going so far as to plop myself down on the porch of a closed shop) to get it out on whatever paper I had on me as fast as possible. But the process is always bigger. Longer. And I have found that expecting anything less is selling, and my art, myself short.

If art is a journey towards wholeness, I won’t get that in a quick burst of time any more than I can form a meaningful, lifelong friendship over a single coffee date. But a consistent return to the ritual of art? That gives me a much bigger picture. It lets me check in with myself regularly, listening for the precise feel and wonder of each individual meeting with who I am in that moment. And the really great thing about art as ritual? Knowing when to stop (I cap my words written per day at 500, personally.) and knowing–really knowing–that I will start again soon.

Below are three of my favorite practices that helped me, personally, to create a ritual around my work. Not a definitive list, mind you. But some ideas to get you started if you’re just beginning to explore the idea.

Engaging the senses! (If you identify as a Christian and were ever drawn to “high church,” this one’s for you.) I understand that for some, this could be distracting. But one thing that really helps me shift is setting the time I spend working on my art apart somehow, rather than making it rushed and crammed. This could be as simple as lighting a special candle/incense, or brewing a specific “art” drink that you come to associate with working on your creative journey. How about your sense of touch? I have a chenille sweater, for example, that invokes a very specific feeling, and often, I take a minute to put it on before I start to work. The time it takes to light the candles/incense, prepare the drink, put on the special clothes gives your brain a chance to register where you are going. It prepares you to meet your work. 

Ask your project where it wants to go. Stay with me on this one. If you are one of those people who works well in specific atmospheres, take it a step further and consult your work when selecting one. Then listen. Really listen. I can’t tell you the number of times I have tried to work on my art in a space that just wasn’t…well, working. And the result was a sort of ”cramped” feeling. Like, there was no room for this work, and I should just hurry up and be done with it. Another writer friend of mine mentioned this same feeling years ago while she was in the throes of edits (A moment of silence for everyone who finds themselves there right now.) and said that one day, thoroughly exasperated, she just asked her manuscript aloud, “Well, where do you want to go?” She then found herself in a sweet, calm coffee house with lots of sunlight, which she said was the exact joyful feeling the book was evoking. And she got SO much work done. May we all have such focus when editing. Asking my work where it wants to go puts me in touch with the work itself, and it makes me listen for what the piece is actually saying. (If you’re looking for a space that doesn’t require you to spend money, might I suggest checking out nearby library branches. Or one that’s further away if it has a really perfect vibe and you want to make a day trip of it. Most of them allow you to bring in a covered beverage. So brew that special drink, pour it into a to-go mug, and head on over.)

Journal afterward. This doesn’t have to be a long entry. Often, for me, it’s just a couple of lines scribbled down in my planner. But these lines are just for me. I don’t owe them to an audience, and I’m not trying to make them super polished. Take a minute to engage with the person you are on the other side of this creative endeavor. What are you feeling after working on your art? What impressions/questions/realizations are you taking with you?

Hope these ideas were helpful. Good luck, pilgrims!