For the Artist

I heard this wonderful poem today by Irish poet John O'Donohue. Thought I'd share.  You're welcome.

For the Artist at the Start of Day 

May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.

May this be a morning of innocent beginning,
When the gift within you slips clear
Of the sticky web of the personal
With its hurt and its hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,

A Morning when you become a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend from silence,

May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,

To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,

Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved

Until the veil of the unknown yields
And something original begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your heart

In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.

May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the light

To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.

Where do I go from here?

Have you ever been lost? I mean, truly lost? Wondering around a new city alone, you suddenly realise you have no idea where you are or how to return to familiar ground? I'm sure you simply asked a passing stranger for directions (they'll know what to do) and that panic feeling dispersed quickly. Now imagine you're not lost in a city, but a forest... or out at sea where no one is on hand. You are alone. No one can answer your burning question, "where do I go from here?" That black-hole feeling of lost hope grows at such a terrifying rate you fear you'll never escape it. 

That's how I felt when I decided to quit screenwriting. (You can read some blog posts here)
It was a dream I'd pursued for so long, it felt as though I didn't know how to do anything else.
But it was hurting me. Over the course of the last year, my self-belief had been gradually chipped away until nothing was left. 
I sat down at my desk one morning and realised that I didn't have the desire to pursue it any more. I was done.
For those around me, this came as a bolt out of the blue as I'd had a relatively successful year; I was on my way to 'making it'! Yet, to me, I saw failure and it was destroying me. 
I had to stop.

So, I found myself in that dark, lonely place, lost. If I'm not a writer, who am I? The question taunted me, constantly.
I felt I had nothing to give. I was spent. I needed replenishing. 

It was suggested to me gently that I should return to my art. I'd been practising a form of meditation and prayer through art for some years and more recently had been teaching it at my church. I'd found a true sense of peace and communion with God through my canvases; a kind of secret door to communicating with Him. However, as my current depressive state had caused a disconnect between me and my faith, I was resistant to the idea. It took some effort to organise my studio space, but I won't deny there was a sense of 'homecoming' once I'd cracked open the first jar of acrylic medium.

The above image was my first piece.

The first of many.

The beginning of a new journey.