Last night, I was in a migraine fugue, this one brought on
by the chill of an artist’s loft where the borders of Brooklyn and Queens
blur. There were seven of us one
male and six femme gathered to create our own vision board for this new year. For those who don’t know, a vision board
is meant to guide the mind towards clarity around a specific life goal. One
tunes out the logic of the left-brain and allows the creative expression of the
right brain to discover and identify through visually mapping out dreams and
aspirations.
The session was held at Fleeting Dream Art Collective, a raw art space in the industrial bowels where East
Williamsburg and Bushwick intersect. The surrounding neighborhood is a mishmash
of brick and mortar, circa 1950s. The only sign of modernism, written on the
warehouse signs half in English half Chinese advertising for cell phone
supplies. The entrance is at the top of a long alley way, part driveway, part
parking lot, the type of place one would steer away from in the dead of night.
Kate and I ring the doorbell and Andrea Kirk the location
facilitator meets us outside and leads us up a back staircase and down a short
hall to their space. They’ve just moved in, so the space is unorganized with
workshop and art materials juxtaposed to bookcases and a beautiful wood and
tapestry shoji screen. It’s a corner space with casement windows on two walls,
a utility wall painted with creature art, in yellows and blues. There is a
heater is suspended from the ceiling, at the entrance of the loft,
counterproductive in the repurposed use of the space as the heat rises and
stays above, rather than heating the humans below.
Sara Nowlin the lead facilitator is seated on a furry
turquoise pillow, she is wearing a scarf and hat. There are four others: Ben,
Christina, Teresa, Patricia. Once
introductions are complete, we settle onto our own pillows, an array covered in
furry pinks and blues, neon orange that conjures Alice in Wonderland’s
caterpillar genie and the Cheshire cat. I choose the least colorful, a taupe
floral floor pillow with fringes. Ready to take flight on this journey, surely
a magic pillow would be just as adventurous as a carpet?
Sara walks us through how the afternoon activities will
proceed, starting with a cast-off meditation where we shed all that prevents us
from accessing our creative selves—the frustration, the inner critic, the
martyr, the unknown into the center of the circle and light it on fire
(figuratively of course). Andrea and Sara then fill the center of the with a
small mountain of magazines, and for the next hour we’re guided to select a
magazine, flip through and rip out (or cut) the images and words that resonate
with or touch us most.
I find myself pulling images of light and fire, women in
pensive poses, looking outward some more direct than others. The colors are
muted in neutral shades of orange, gold and gray. As I go through the pile, I
find myself whittling away the words and the images of predictability, leaning
toward the bolder representations of who I am, who I want to be. The mapping is
cathartic, therapeutic; as the possibilities of what this year could bring
become clearer in my eyes as my vision board takes shape.
By the close of the workshop it is nearly done, perhaps 60%
complete, with a river of white space flowing around the images and words. There
is still work to be done and I find myself thinking of books and magazines that
are in the house, ones that I’ll have to buy to fill the blank spots. For the
time being I am satisfied, and feel that it is in a good place.
Pausing.
Catching my breath. It’s a thing that I do
sometimes. I find myself in the midst of a creative project and then I find
myself in limbo. This happens (or is that I allow it to happen) often: I begin
in full force, luminously charged by the energy coming from the work, from my
heart and then, I not so much as stop but halt, pause. Sometimes it is in the
timing, as I often get a creative surge in the late evening (which is most
detrimental when one works a traditional 9-5). At times there may be a concern
for my well-being, i.e., sleep deprivation, in a zone where I forget to eat or
the worse of it is the onset of a headache (which for most people is simply
cured by aspirin and a caffeine pill)--for me it is almost often a catalyst to
something far worse; where a simple headache explodes into a full-blown
migraine.
Yesterday afternoon I felt the pulse on the back of my head,
and took an aspirin, a drink of water, a bite of a granola bar. It was snowing
outside, and I remember thinking to myself that I should take a picture. The
snow was iridescent in the sunless gray light. I was trimming a sunburst gold
and pearl pin, an image from a copy of W
magazine for the vision board. Something about it triggered a memory, the Field of Dreams—an early Kevin Costner
movie about building a baseball diamond in the middle of a corn field. The spirit
of his father telling him “if you build it they will come” – the ghosts of
baseball past. It makes me wonder how much of what we vision comes from the
past, the remembrances of who we wanted to be when we were younger?
I can’t shake the chill and excuse myself to use the
restroom. It is at the end of a winding hallway of white walls and steel gray
doors, the numbers written in black Sharpie. The cold snaps at my heel as I
dash through the corridor. In the dark silence of the ladies, I rest my
forehead on the cold tile to soothe the pulsations; I try a meditation to
control my breath to control the flow of blood with my mind. It sounds almost
mystical as I recant the memory but it’s pure hell, the minute by minute torturous.
If anything has taught me about patience, about leading oneself back to the
calm center, it is this.
###
Resources:
Sara Nowlin, Life Coach
http://saranowlin.wordpress.com/
@saranowlin
Fleeting Dreams Art Collective
www.fleetingdream.org
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