Let's take a breath on the page
“Space is the breath of art.” —Frank Lloyd Wright
I’m a woman obsessed. To be immersed in a creative project is a beautiful thing. But sometimes we can forget to pause. This has been my life for a few weeks.
“When you are writing, you're conjuring. It's a ritual, and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you're inviting into the room.” —Tom Waits
When I reflect, I reailze this is a pattern. I did this when I wrote memoir, too. Creative immersion is not something that just shuts off, no matter all the tasks of life waiting for us. No matter the obligations to sustain our health and find strength to stand up for what we believe.
I’ve been feeling a lack of presence off the page. Sure, it could have something to do with the mass trauma being thrust on anyone with integrity (who doesn’t want to dissociate a little?), but it also has something to do with process. When I write, I freefall. I let go and just allow the story to come through. But reassociating with the world can be tough.
I asked a trusted coach and friend, and she suggested a ritual or routine to transition from art to life and back again. She told me I probably knew the exercise she was going to suggest since I used to teach yoga (see audio below), and I did. In fact, I had just recorded this for Insight Timer. Sometimes we offer what we need.
What she reminded me was that breath is the magic of transition.
And like any person obsessed, I had to ask … can also be true for the writing itself?
Is it possible to find our breath on the page?
Breath = pause and attention. For me, especially when writing personal work, this meant approaching the material from a different angle. Some of the essays, for instance, couldn’t be written in first person, not at first, so I started with an imagined third or a distanced self looking at the self in the scene.
Some writing is delivered straight-up but requires many breaks. Many breaths.
Writing with distance and pause is how we find breath on the page. If the art takes us over, finding a way to take a step back, feel our lungs expand, and reexamine will allow reintegration.
Breath = space. The space that we create, in our minds or in our bodies, is power. Recognition of this space can be a gift to ourselves. It expands our ability to endure and practice creative resilience.
We take around 17,000 breaths each day, give or take. Our lungs are purging who-knows-what from our bodies. Meanwhile, taking a moment to recognize this brilliant mechanism that flourishes with the right amounts of air, food, hydration and heat is easy to forget. As stewards of story, we must give our work the same balance.
Besides, watching our breath for a time might just help us to better see what we are trying to say.
So my invitation to you is to take some time to remember the power of the pause, the exhale, and all that we take in. I hope you enjoy this breath practice (when you have a handy 7 minutes), and I hope it helps you to find pacing and presence as you create whatever it is you are called to create.
Interpretive prompt: Rush through something on purpose: a poem, an essay, a work of art. Then go back and expand any areas that invite a deep breath. A pause. A little white space. This might mean deleting words or creating literal space on the page or canvas. It might mean pulling out a single detail and giving it its own space.
Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet (soon!) June 21 at 12 ET.
I feel compelled to write. I have for as long as I can remember. Before it brought me anything, I had to put things down on paper. No matter how good or bad things got. Whether it was a diary entry, a bad poem, or telling a story.
It meant connection to me.
Connection to others, and connection to myself. I felt like I couldn’t understand anything in my heart or mind until I forced myself to try, at least try, to write it down.
Lisa Cortez Walden: I am not an amalgam of voices. My voice is singular, it is a part of a chorus—maybe. But singular still. I tell the stories that I think are necessary for humanity. AI is never necessary for humanity—it is literally the antithesis of it.
Jen, this hits so hard with me on both physical and emotional levels. I had lung cancer in 2022. I started writing for myself (after years of writing for others) as part of my recovery from having ⅓ of my lung removed. Breathing became a gift from moment to moment. I had to relearn it, in tandem with learning to write from my center and not on a deadline. Both take time and space. I also took up daily meditation. Guiding the breath with intention was illuminating. I love the idea of writing from the breath and noticing where it goes. Thanks for this!
I love the feeling of creative immersion and I also love the breath of editing work. Both processes are essential and bring the work to life. You describe it so well here.