I just went through a life exercise in anticipation and harvest. Those who know me know that patience is one of my weakest points.

Months ago, I planned to make space for something possibly life-changing.

It’s tricky to frame something this way, then consciously work on downplaying it while it draws near, just to avoid any false romanticism or expectation. When it does unfold, the biggest struggle is to be fully in it, without referencing to the time, effort and anticipation that built it up. It is like a photographer who prepares his gear with full diligence, and patiently waits for the deer to come out and play, or the desert flowers to bloom. He doesn’t know exactly when the anticipated moment will come, if it ever does, and when it does, he prays he is able to recognize it, witness it and play his role in it by taking a picture.

My college teacher once said that life never goes as planned, so don’t get caught up in the details. Go out there with a skeleton plan, then do your thing and have a blast.

When a life-changing moment hits us, we don’t necessarily become aware of it until it is over. And then we immediately want to box it up in a memory. The experience remains in tact, it is complete, and it fills us with inspiration and joy, maybe even pain, the kind that wakes us up and keeps us on our toes. And we love it, having permanent access to this box of stories, which were once very real to us. We stock up on happy memories then we feel we have lived a good life.

What’s the danger here?

When we commit an experience to memory, we make it complete, and also unmoving. It stops. It doesn’t make room for change anymore– it becomes a fixture, albeit a happy, inspiring one.

When these stories involve people who are still in our lives, the encounter becomes stunted. The memory of something great has the danger of keeping us from welcoming the not-so-great days.

I just came from a series of life-changing events, and I’m caught in between romanticizing them in a capsule, and letting them flow through me without grasping, acknowledging that they were big and important and restorative, maybe even heart-opening (or heart-breaking), but also that they’re over. They came, and they passed.

How does one honor something, and yet let it go?

I made granola for the first time today.  It didn’t work out.

I kept thinking it’s okay.  Mistakes before mastery, that’s how I do it in the studio.  When I used to experiment with new materials, rule of thumb was always, “No hesitation; bring on the mistakes.”

The raw material in this case was food, and I felt bad for wasting good food that’s not even readily available (buckwheat groats!).  I reviewed what went wrong (toaster settings weren’t checked),and tried to salvage what I could (semi-okay toasted granola, anyone?), but what ultimately made me feel better was clearing the space, tossing the evidence of failure and scrubbing burnt parts off the baking sheet.

Why is it such a relief to clear the evidence of a mistake?  Is there comfort in forgetting it happened?  Is that what moving on is about?

Last night someone I just met told me that I came across as an academic artist more than one that created art. The observation gave me a jolt.

Earlier that day, I also visited my old studio and felt a cutting nostalgia for my old life, when I’d spend hours on end in that white room, surrounded by my favorite things– paints, brushes, books, and blank canvases–and cut away from the rest of the world.  I loved locking myself up in that hole.  It was my sanctuary, my cabin in the woods.  And the last time I actually created in there was in December 2014 — seven months ago.

I realized last night that yes, I have been neglecting my art, and with it a part of me, perhaps the part that sings the songs of my heart.  Last night was a quiet red flag.  I’d like to think it’s circumstantial, that priorities have shifted recently, but it is true what they say:  Kung gusto, may paraan.  Kung ayaw, may dahilan (If you want it, there are ways.  If you don’t, there are excuses.).

It’s amazing how these little nudges show up to bring us back to the path. Thank you.