An Artist's Date

And a trio of fresh poems

Dear readers,

I am currently on An Artist’s Date as part of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way 12-week course, which I started last Tuesday alongside a group run by the amazing author Marianne Power. If you don’t know already, The Artist’s Way is a book and a self-led course originally launched in 1992. Elizabeth Gilbert credits The Artist’s Way for Eat, Pray, Love and among the millions of other people who rate it, include Emma Gannon, Anne Lamott and Martin Scorsese. The “basic tools” of The Artist’s Way are Morning Pages: three A4 stream-of-consciousness pages of writing first thing in the morning, and an artist date: a block of time - ideally two hours weekly to set aside to nurture your inner artist.

I’ve started reading the book, and done morning pages for good chunks of time, quite a few times. The notion of artist’s dates, alongside Selina Barker and Vicki Pavitt’s former podcast Project Love, and the work of Francesca Specter, who coined the term Alonement and Nicola Slawson of The Single Supplement helped me get to a place in my life where I enjoy time alone (and sometimes I need reminding!) However, going solo on a 12-week course doesn’t feel achievable for me. Having the accountability of 20-something others as well as Marianne and another facilitator feels hopeful.

I’ve been writing my morning pages all week but was struggling to make time for an artist date, amid the piles of unpacking in my new home, work I’d fallen a bit behind on and navigating this new chapter. Today, Sunday, at 2pm, I decided to take a walk around the block as I’d only just showered and dressed (I celebrated my birthday (early!) last night with local friends). After a 10-minute turn around the local roads, I remembered a vast cemetery, a stone’s throw away from my new place, and made the decision to venture there on an impromptu artist date

I love graveyards and cemeteries. Often swathes of headstones, a solid symbol of death and grief, are overrun with abundant life. Flowers, birds, and trees flourish in these often still and silent places. Death and life. I adore savouring the names, the history, the tributes of love and family. I find these places a reminder of the fragility of life and a wake up call of my own mortality and a reminder to savour my “wild and precious” life.

This trip to the cemetery included seeing Jays (my favourite bird that to me feels hopeful and joyful) four times, a wondering of what people might write on my gravestone if I had one and in that moment looking down and seeing a stone saying “A special auntie” and a little tear coming to my eye, and I also came across an abundant and colourful rose garden, which felt like a joyful surprise on a cold September day.

For the whole of the artist’s date, I didn’t go on my phone, but I did use it to take photos.

About an hour into my date with death, I felt inspired to write a stream-of-consciousness poem into my phone. I then wrote two more.

Two Jays

The trees are whispering

Can you hear?

Stillness in death, love sleep

Life springs from this landscape of death

I am alive

Bramble rises across cold hard stone, cracked

The flash of a blue jay’s feather. Gratitude

Magpies. Curiosity

Breeze holds me as fears pass through

Yellow flowers, mowed brown lawn.

Trees

Faded fake flowers, angels, stone roses

I follow the path

At the highest point, amid birdsong and the hum of the roads afar

I can see the rolling hills, a glimpse of the sea

Children playing

In this moment, two jays fly past

A gift, a remembering

Solace and togetherness

Secret Rose Garden

Somehow the roses are budding and flourishing

Under this cold, grey and blank late September sky

I gasp as I turn the corner to a field of colour

Flowery powdery scent of roses

Oranges, pinks, red, yellow, white

Even purple, pink

Windmills blowing in the breeze

The flow of water

Burgundy

Tributes of love and loss

Baby Andrew

Nanny

Husband

Dad

“We will never forget him”

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die”

When I die

When I die

Please don’t write”

“She fell asleep”

Please don’t write”

“Reunited”

I hope you will say”

“She was funny and kind,

“She smiled at strangers,

“A special auntie,

“A joyful friend.”

I hope you will recall:

“She lived from the heart,

“She seized the day,

“She could laugh at herself,

“She sang.

“She danced,

“She wrote,

“She laughed,

“She hugged,

“She loved herself…

“And she lived a life of truth.”

“And she cherished flowers, animals and trees… Picked up stones, shells and feathers.

“Recharged in nature, especially the sea.”

I hope one day I peacefully slow down in gratitude.

I hope my hair continues to grey.

I hope my eyes crinkle and never stop sparkling.

I hope I remember I am alive until I am dead.

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The Artist’s Way is “A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity”. I’m enjoying it.

After the cemetery, I had a bit more time. I wandered some more local streets, met a cat, read some graffiti, noticed street art.

Then I picked up a cookery book from a pile of free stuff, called: “How not to die.”

For the final part of my two hours, I decided to write… this.

I know it is not my usual newsletter but I’m going to send it anyway.

Usual Uplifts will be coming soon.

Have a wonderful week,

BB x