The Mother's Way
A 12 week journey into The Artist’s Way as a tired, restless mama
I just finished Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way, after what seemed like a small eternity. This may not have been the “right” season to dig into 12 weeks of creative growth but I think that’s exactly why I needed to do it. There’s something about trying something when you feel least prepared. I had a hunch giving myself this outlet would ground me after a tumultuous start to the year. My worn copy of The Artist’s Way could be found in the car, the diaper bag, in carry-on luggage, or on top of boxes as we moved back to the northeast.
If you flipped through the book for first time you’d notice short chapters followed by suggested weekly, creative exercises. Julia prescribes Morning Pages (MPs) every day and a two hour solo Artist’s Date (AD) every week. MPs are intended to be at least three pages of written consciousness first thing. And by that I mean you’re writing exactly what comes to mind, without judgement or analysis. An AD is dedicated time set aside to feed the inner artist. Without leaning into work itself, this time can be experimental, playful, or whatever one needs it to be.
This was the second time I’ve read this book, but the first time I devoted more discipline to working the steps. And even still, I did so in fragments. Much was left unwritten as I lived within the demands of young children. (One of whom was weeks old when I began.) I worked through the first 6-8 weeks fairly straight through without interruption. Weeks 9-12 came after a brief hiatus as we readjusted to our new apartment. As you may already guess, it was an unorganized and interrupted journey with lots of small breakthroughs. My anchors during this project were core elements of Julia’s wisdom: Morning Pages and Artist Dates.
Morning Pages (or After Bedtime Pages)
I am not usually one to get up before my children. Even if I do wake up, I linger in bed as long as they will allow. It’s off to the races soon after their eyes flick open. Morning pages come a bit later in the day and I rarely get a full three pages down before my attention is diverted elsewhere. But, pen is put to paper.1 Words are moving, frail as they might be.
“The baby cries, the laundry’s been dumped on the floor to write this.”
“I cut my hair to my collarbone and I danced in the kitchen with E.”
“Itching to write, so tired with congestion and a foggy mind. Writing here and now to quiet the noise and move the needle forward.”
“Have my children slowed me down? Yes, but they have also (helpfully) redirected me.”
I placed faith in MPs early on knowing they’d supported so many through their creative journeys. With time I noticed my scrappy stream of consciousness (the weather, the uneaten food next to me, the to-do list for the day) unearthing something richer. Just like dark, fertile compost MPs were the perfect place for seedlings to grow. The practice of returning day after day, writing little by little, invited me to trust in process rather than production. Write for writing’s sake, I told myself. Trust the physical act of writing and that the interior, dynamic reality of it means something.
I’m still trusting in MPs most days. In fact, I just broke open a new notebook. There’s still the question of what to do with the notebooks I’ll eventually fill and collect, but I’ll save that for future me to handle.
Artist Dates (with a Nursling in Tow)
My Artist Dates did not live up to the author’s original definition, but they were still encounters with inspiration, hope, and purpose. My tiny one tagged along and I rarely took the suggested two hours. Though this might have been an hindrance to some, I felt incredibly fulfilled getting out of the house to do something beyond the usual routine. I managed ten (eleven?) great dates with my inner artist and others:
A solo visit to the Library of Congress with a long walk around the Capital Building and Botanical Gardens.
A shopping trip to try on (and find!) new postpartum jeans.
A date to grab coffee with a friend.
A walk around Green Springs Garden, stroller in tow.
A visit to the National Cathedral to see the cherry blossoms.
A professional, postpartum massage with a good podcast.
An at-home, sans kids lunch date with a friend.
A date with my husband to eat our favorite ice cream, Jeni’s, of course.
An impromptu visit to the Glenstone Museum, thanks to our military IDs.
A nature walk through a local birding preserve.
A visit to the Phillips Collection and glass of iced tea in Dupont Circle.
The Artist’s Way prescribes solitude during these dates, but I enjoyed the company of my baby. She sat contentedly in the stroller or on my chest while I showed her a flower or piece of fine art. We sat together as she nursed in museums and gardens. I watched her take in the textures and colors around us, eventually babbling on in heaven’s language.
My last Artist Date was just last week at The Phillips Collection in Washington DC. I scored free street parking right outside the museum entrance, which set the perfect tone for an hour inside. Nestled in her favorite carrier, the baby and I basked in the glow of four Rothkos, a couple Picassos, and admired the work of Cezanne. I was delighted to learn more of French artist, Cezanne, who painted objects around his house over 150 times. Now, some of his renowned work is simply that of his fruit bowl. Household subjects and ordinary faces were worthy of his time and our attention.2 In a similar way, how might my ordinary, exhausting life be a work of art?3
Outcomes (or Did This Really Work?)
I started The Artist’s Way looking for common ground between my seemingly separate lives: my life as a mother, wife, and friend, as a kitchen-table-theologian, as an artist, and so on. What connects these postures and fuels them day-to-day? How can I expand my creative appetite? Who am I becoming?
I partially assumed my motherhood would prevent any significant meaning making from this project. It’s true on some days, but for the most part I find I’m able to piece together more from the domestic life than I once thought. As a spiritual director, stay/work-at-home mother, and tentative home educator — amongst the other hats I wear regularly — I’m learning the connective thread is a desire to pay attention, a longing to move slowly in the world, to make beautiful things, and build relationships. If this sounds overly romanticized, it is, at least at first glance. One of my first MPs noted “motherhood is impolite and so is creative work.” Impolite might be scratching the surface. It goes without saying there are constant interruptions with littles ruling the roost. But I cannot simply wait for a sterile environment. So instead, I welcome the interruptions, because they are the very life I’m writing from.
So, what happened within my reading of The Artist’s Way? Glad you asked.
I have a greater awareness of the inner censor preying upon my work. Courage is growing as I push past the self-criticism.
Getting dressed in the morning invites energy into my day. Early in my last pregnancy I began to dread leggings. Not because they weren’t comfortable, but because I knew I could be more… myself. I started wearing more wide legged pants, dresses and skirts. And more color.
I have a greater confidence in our decision to home educate our littles.
Our home continues to evolve into a restful haven free from artifacts or obligation. The internet told me my house is not a museum and let me tell you, I breathed a big sigh of relief. Toys were minimized. I threw out most of my make up. Books and clothes were donated. But rest assured, no craft supplies were harmed.
There’s increasing alignment between all the ways I show up online. (Allow me to explain this one a bit further below.)
Ever Evolving Together
You may have already noticed the new name of this Substack. In a search to find alignment between my spiritual direction practice, my Substack, and my Etsy shop I decided I needed a name that fit all three. This Gentle Light was reborn as an ode to the ways light literally and metaphorically shape my life. This adjustment gives a beautiful new energy to my online (and offline) work and I hope it inspires you in all the ways you’re evolving, too.
This change is accompanied by another forthcoming change: paid subscriptions. I’d be foolish to exclude this update here, as it is a direct result of the past few months working through The Artist’s Way. Paid subscribers — kindreds, if you will — will have access to a growing library of formation resources, monthly videos from yours truly, and future discussion circles related to spiritual practices, liturgical time, parenting through the early years, and other shared interests. This keeps this space sustainable and gives me room to offer a sliding scale to directees.
More details to come, as this post is long enough.
Have you worked your way through The Artist’s Way? Tell me about it!
Be well, my friends,
Elizabeth
Reflection Practice: Reframe Your View
Sometimes all we need is a simple reframe to discover a new perspective. Use an empty picture frame (with the back taken off) or cut a “frame” from a piece of cardboard. Take a walk with the frame and hold it up in front of you. Whether indoors or outside, regularly pause to notice the scenes inside the frame.
When viewed through the frame, what scenes capture your attention? Why?
Experiment with light, distance, and dimension. Where do you notice emotions like delight, disgust, or doubt stirring in you?
Currently Reading:
You Are Your Child’s First Teacher by Rahima Baldwin Dancy
Beyond the Rainbow Bridge: Nurturing Our Children from Birth to Seven by Barbara Patterson
I resist the urge to write MPs on a device, though some may choose differently.
Great recognized great. Monet, an early admirer, purchased a small painting from him and hung it in his bedroom until it was acquired by a museum.
My mother-artist friend, Marina Gross-Hoy is an excellent place to start as we consider looking at our lives through the lens of art.
This essay was exciting to read- I could feel my body tingle with the hope that creativity can meet us in these seasons ✨ (and thank you for the shout out!)