For a loop
Grace-filled Growth, Dec. 2024
For a loop
“Remember that The Artist’s Way is a spiral path. You will circle through some of the issues over and over, each time at a different level. There is no such thing as being done with an artistic life.” Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way
My body tingles with anticipation weeks in advance. I can close my eyes and smell the spice of pine mingled with dry dirt caked in my nostrils. I can picture the orange clay clinging to my toes like Cheetos in my Rainbow knockoff sandals from Kmart after a day of walking around the dusty fairgrounds. I can smell Job’s Daughter’s corn dogs and the Lion’s Club cinnamon rolls. I can feel the hot sting of the gymnastics mat on my palms with every anticipated handstand and cartwheel at our gym’s annual performance. I can hear the groans and hisses of old carnival rides: the scrape of metal on metal, the shrill screams of ride goers as they dip and spin.
But mostly, I anticipate the thrill of the Zipper. The hour wait is always worth it. Buddied up, we slide into the metal cage and the carny, smelling of cigarettes and hands black with grease, slams the cage door closed and bolts us shut.
Some people’s worst nightmare; my highlight of the summer and the Nevada County Fair.
If I’m with a gymnast friend, we start the flipping before the ride even begins. We have records to break. Some of the team boys (teenagers) claimed they flipped 100 times, 200 times, or, the most worthy of bragging rights, exactly 69 times. We pump our bodies forward and back, gaining momentum as our cage rises up the conveyor belt and the ride stops to release and board passengers.
The Zipper offers a 360-degree experience. Each cage flips upside down as the line of cages maneuver and flip over the top of the ever-tumbling carnival contraption. Flips on flips on dips and screams. Like zipping up a zipper, then rolling down a hill.
Hours after, I can feel the flipping motion when I lay down in bed that night. I can shut my eyes and I’m there. Flipping. Dipping. Careening. Surrendered. Alive.
I would give almost anything to replicate this feeling.
***
When I worked as a grant writer for a nonprofit, my coworkers would make fun of me because I couldn’t sit still. My biggest offense: twirling.
It would start as a flutter in my chest, an itching in my fingertips. I’m mouthing the words without even realizing. The title hits with a flash of illumination and the paragraphs are writing themselves. I am just a vessel, pouring out words like water drops.
I stand up from my office chair and ballet twirl while the images spin in my mind. I sit back down, and a sentence flows, and then another. My foot is tapping, my head is bobbing to the stream of thoughts.
“Mmhmm,” I whisper audibly. “Yes, yes, that’s it.”
My coworker is wearing air pods, oblivious to the sounds of my process.
I tumble over a turn of phrase, stuck for a moment. I jump up from my chair this time and bolt out of the office door, leaving my phone and Google chat. I take a loop around the nondescript office building. I don’t notice the grass or the feel of warm sun baking my skin. I am in my head as my legs pump past my purple Honda accord and Scott's blue Rav 4 and Doug's Subaru that he always shifts into neutral to save on gas.
The phrase pops into my head and words dance back into paragraphs, falling in line like dominoes. By the time I make the loop back to my desk, my fingertips are twitching again. I type and twirl, twirl and type.
The words are flipping, dipping, careening. I am surrendered. Alive.
I would give almost anything to replicate this feeling.
***
I haven’t ridden the Zipper in years. I had a chance at the North Idaho Fair this summer, but I was still recovering from sinus surgery, and my better judgment told me thrashing around in a metal cage might exacerbate my already slow recovery.
I have found some other outlets that give a similar thrill: rock climbing, skiing, wakeboarding, rock jumping into the frigid lake. But I can’t do these every day, of course. Sometimes you gotta stay home and do the laundry.
***
I spent a long season writing without twirling. A deep burnout and undiagnosed OCD made joyful creation almost impossible. Stubborn as I am, I still wrote, pushed through, hit publish, created anyway.
But, man, did I miss that magic.
***
A couple months ago, while working on an assignment for my Artist’s Way Creativity Cohort, I notice a flutter in my chest, an itching in my fingertips.
I step back from my standing desk and find myself performing a kick-ball-change, then an involuntary pas de bourree. The words are flowing and my body is twirling.
I gasp.
***
When we moved from San Diego, CA to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho last summer, I only had one writing goal: enjoy writing again.
It’s hard not to take the credit for my success. It only makes sense that I want to cling to this feeling. That I’ll do anything to replicate the magic.
I message my friends: “I can do anything when I’m high on creativity!”
And it’s mostly true. If I spend the morning writing a particularly juicy memory for my memoir or compiling a helpful list of OCD resources for Glitch Fix, I can clean the house, put away laundry, and make the phone call I’ve been avoiding with almost no extra effort in the afternoon.
Ashlee Gadd writes, “Creativity begets creativity.” For me, creativity begets my big girl pants and I’m able to function as a responsible adult human1.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to force myself to eat my veggies first when really starting with dessert will allow me to eat my veggies and my protein and probiotics and drink my water and get a load bearing workout in, too.
Soon, I’m enjoying writing most days. Twirling most days. I commit to weekly posts and monthly newsletters. I ask for a walking pad for Christmas because my writing energy is electric.
***
Then, I get sick.
Halfway through our Thanksgiving trip to visit friends and family in San Diego, I get a fever. I am so sad to miss seeing friends, but I am downright panicked about losing my writing momentum.
The high only lasts so long. Artists require daily quests to keep up their inspiration, and I could barely get out of bed, much less write something fun or deep or witty.
Anticipation only thrills when you know there’s a ride at the end of the line.
I didn’t know how long I’d be sick. If or when the twirling would return.
Luckily, I felt good enough by Thanksgiving Day to fulfill my yearly mashed-potato-making duties and join in Thanksgiving lunch with my family and dinner with my husband’s. I felt much better for our flight home the day after Thanksgiving, but woke up Saturday morning with a new and more pernicious bug—that has so far lasted two and half weeks.
In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron writes, “It (making art) begins with getting into the now and enjoying your day. It begins with giving yourself some small treats and breaks.”
I decided that even though I felt crummy, I could still look for small joys and acts of self-care.
I tried to paint my way to a little creative satisfaction. Literally (and cornily), I tried to make something beautiful out of the creative ebb I was in.
You know what? I still felt crummy, both physically and mentally.
I was not enjoying my day or my substitute art. I was failing. I was scared the joy, the high, the momentum might be gone for good (days on days of cold, gray skies and no magical snow in sight I’m sure didn’t help.)
Old habits die hard, and my default response was to shame myself for panicking. Shouldn’t I trust myself by now? Don’t you know the creative life has ebbs and flows?
Before I got sick, when I was high on creativity, I planned out my November newsletter. The working title: enjoying the twirl. I was going to explore how growth and progress is a spiral staircase, how certain lessons appear and reappear for our own good, but also how the good loops, too.
If I still engaged in OCD magical thinking, I would say I was asking for it: to be given a recurring lesson that I would normally resist, to be thrown for a loop and fail the test.
My OCD tells me I’m not allowed to be disappointed by my lack of creative output when I’m sick. Disappointment shows I’m not trusting the process. Disappointment means I’m not enjoying, and that means I’m not meeting my only writing goal.
With a little distance and a (finally) clearer head, I can see that this is emotional perfectionism2, and it doesn’t serve me.
Hating being sick and unproductive does not make me a failure, it makes me human!
The high of the good does not inoculate from the pain of the hard. I’m learning those adrenaline producing experiences can actually make the lows feel lower.
That is okay. It doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.
I know this is a lesson I must return to again and again throughout my life, and I’m not going to shame myself for needing more practice. I’m also not going to wish for more opportunities to practice either ;)
I’m starting to think that enjoyment may not be the best writing goal to strive for. Like gratitude or happiness, you can’t dictate or control your feelings, try as you might.
Instead of enjoyment, can I strive for self-compassion for the journey? Can I show up willing to ride and also willing to move forward when the ride stops?
You can’t live on the Zipper: flipping, dipping, careening.
But I can keep showing up: surrendered, honest, alive.
An invitation to grace-filled growth
Is there a lesson you feel like you keep needing to re-learn? How can you be kind to yourself when you’re thrown for a loop?
What I’m reading
On Substack
dance class for middle aged women - by Shannon K. Evans—speaking of twirling, this essay was a hoot and explores the connection between physical movement and joy.
Craving//Connecting: Control and Creativity - by Kelsey Aldinger—Kelsey writes candidly about identity, creativity, and surrendering control.
Upgrades - by Rachael Schmid—Rachael asks, “What if we quit upgrading, for good?” and I can’t stop thinking about what this might look like in my own life.
A Gristly Mess - by Kristina Tucker—A stunning essay on how staying tender comes at a cost but is so worth it.
Grace on the Gram
What if we embraced women as seasons? by Hannah Lacy
Books
The only book I read since my last newsletter was Colum McCann’s, Transatlantic. I am in awe of how he can use small details to show so much about each character’s internal landscape. For example, “Alcock was twenty-six years old…A single man, he said he loved women but preferred engines. Nothing pleased him more than to pull apart the guts of a Rolls-Royce, then put her back together again. He shared his sandwiches with the reporters: often there was a thumbprint of oil on the bread.”
When I was sick, I binged Shrinking for the first time and re-watched Ted Lasso. Love both of them!
What I’m writing
I launched Glitch Fix, where I offer weekly(ish) bite-sized tips, resources, and encouragement for battling anxiety, perfectionism, and OCD. My first post answered, What is OCD? and I also shared a Letter to the person newly diagnosed with OCD
I shared a poem/prayer about the artist’s need for daily re-creation in The Artist’s Daily Bread
While winter in Coeur d’Alene means most of the leaves have fallen, I am happy to report that I haven’t seen a spider in months! It’s been a mild winter so far, with mostly cold, gray days and no snow. But it did finally snow today, which felt like a metaphor for my creative life. I’ll leave you with my favorite winter landscape pictures.
Wishing you a season of self-compassion and grace no matter where you find yourself on life’s wild ride. See you in the New Year!
Who knew? Well, besides Julia Cameron?
Emotional perfectionism is the idea that things have to feel just right for you to be okay. That there is a correct emotional response in any given situation and not having that exact response triggers great distress or shame.
This was beautiful, Aly. I needed to read this because I had such a similar experience- I was on such a creative high shortly after starting The Artist's Way and then had surgery and catapulted myself right into the holidays and the spark has worn off. Such great reminders to have self compassion and to keep showing up!
Aly I loved listening to this piece, hearing your voice reach each vignette was a treat. I especially loved your call at the end for self compassion and that is exactly the gentle reminder I needed as I pick up writing again after what feels like the longest year. Thank you