FIELD OF POSSIBILITY

“It’s not the unknown we should be afraid of, but the known. Step into the field of possibility.”

~ Deepak Chopra

During this Father’s Day weekend, I am thinking about my dad, with gratitude. And because it is also the Summer Solstice, the longest light filled day of the year, it inspires me to dream into new possibilities. To illuminate and fertilize what nourishes me, while I courageously let go of what no longer feeds my soul. 

In this way, my father has been an inspiration for me. He is almost 90 years old, and when he was still just a young lad on the cusp of adulthood, a few months shy of his 18th birthday, he left his childhood home back in England, and moved to the United States. 

He had not planned to stay in the States for the rest of his life, when he first set sail for New York City, in June 1948. He’d merely intended to have a bit of a holiday, to visit his oldest sister, who had recently married an American GI. But as London continued to clean up the rubble and rebuild itself after World War II, my dad packed his satchel and boarded a trans-atlantic ocean liner. He traveled modestly, in third class steerage, sharing a room with three other fellows, replete with two bunk beds and a loo. He was enthusiastic and curious, looking for a bit of adventure, following the energy of his imagination. 

He has since told me how much he loved that week onboard the ship, where he ate well, saw a musical show every night, danced beneath the stars, and slept soundly in his bunk, rocked by the wave motion of the Atlantic Ocean. And then, as if by magic, on a bright summer morning, they docked at the gateway to America. Under the welcoming gaze of the Statue of Liberty, my dad disembarked from the ship, walked down the gangplank amidst the throng of his fellow passengers, and into the welcoming embrace of his brother-in-law. Talk about stepping into a field of possibility! How thrilling that moment must have been for him and what courage it called forth. Before him stretched a blank canvas, a new page, an opportunity to trust the present moment, and to follow his own aliveness. 

This sounds to me a lot like the Intuitive Painting process, where we say “yes” to the unfamiliar and unknown. We trust our intuition and allow our imagination to guide us. We practice staying present and we track where our greatest energy is. We listen well to our internal muse, so that we may hear and receive her generous, benevolent, bossy, frequently sassy, playful, and paradoxical prompts.

Needless to say, my father never moved back to England. He became enchanted with the field of possibilities available to him here in the States. He followed his curiosity and the aliveness of the present moment. Over time, he became a U.S. citizen, served in the army, and went to University. He married my mother, had two daughters, later divorced, and then some years after that, he remarried very happily. He is blessed with three fine grandsons, and more recently, an adorable great grandson. Along the way, he’s made friends, he’s made mistakes, he’s gained wisdom, and he’s made lots of jokes. 

In the past, it was not always so easy between the two of us. There were swaths of time when we had difficulty understanding one another, when distance grew between us. During those times it was painful to feel so separate. I am happy to report that in recent years we have grown very close again. There has been a shedding of the old stories and positions. We are more tender and more real with each other; we have forgiven and been forgiven. I am delighted to say that now there is simply presence and love, flowing with ease, between father and daughter. For this, I am deeply grateful. 

While I’m at it, I also want to express gratitude to my dad, for transmitting two essential precepts for a life well lived. The first is to follow your heart’s true longing. The second is to keep your sense of humor, even when things are difficult, especially when things are difficult. And one more thing, I want to say thanks Dad, for always carrying a clean white handkerchief in your pocket, for those many life moments of tears and sneezes.

My father’s journey reminds me that whenever we are embarking upon a new path or challenging project, especially during times of uncertainty and disruption, times when we might be feeling fear or trepidation, it is helpful to have support. Whether we are  traveling to a new country, navigating our lives during a global pandemic, saying good-bye to a loved one, changing jobs, starting a family, or starting a new painting or poem, it is extremely essential and delicious to have support from a friend, a mentor, a sangha, our family, our ohana. 

My father was heartily welcomed to this new landscape by his sister and brother-in-law. My Uncle Irving even took him to Yankee stadium that very first weekend after Dad arrived from the UK, sharing the summertime magic of American baseball! 

Here at Creative Resonance, I wholeheartedly welcome you into the magical realm of Painting, Poetry, & Play for the Soul.  With paints and brushes, paper and glitter, and my loving support, I invite you to join me in this safe, healing, playful kiva of creativity. Together we practice trusting in our intuition and imagination, we follow the energy of our own aliveness, and we reconnect with our true self. We allow ourselves to “step into the field of possibility”.

Below I’d like to share with you one of my poems about this simple potent practice of Creative Resonance:

Invitation to Thrive

I invite you to join me in a journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance, 
to enter this generous garden where we cross-pollinate painting, poetry, and play,
a sanctuary where we appreciate and celebrate who we already are,
a path of inclusion, where messiness has permission to be exactly as it is,
a process of alchemy, where paradox and synchronicity are always welcome,
a loving place of no fretting, no fixing, no resisting, no way to do it wrong, 
here we find our sangha, our ohana, “where nobody gets left behind or forgotten.”

Intuitive Painting invites us to become intimate with creativity itself,
to have beginner’s mind and a childlike willingness to explore and play,
to be curious about color, the allure of shape and image, trusting the brush to guide us.
Here we paint like children, engaged in the process, not attached to the product,
where we wade into waves of glitter and gold, make bold wild strokes of neon tempera hues, 
all the while, tended and befriended by our own benevolent Muse, 
chaperoned by a gracious presence, the synergy of Creative Resonance.

Process Poetry is an invitation to take dictation from our bossy glorious soul,
to be in conversation with the unconventional, the unconscious, the quirky, and the taboo,
a playful, respectful, sometimes sassy call and response,
a walkabout into the labyrinth of imagination and mystery,
a practice of demystifying the actual act of writing, simple as chopping wood and carrying water.
A process of deep listening to the small voice within, just as brave, and just as creative, 
as looking into the mirror and welcoming ourselves all the way in.

Soul Play is a safe portal, a simple array of movement explorations designed to nourish us,
a sustainable menu of moving meditations, distilled and woven from Yoga, Improv, and Tai Chi,
gentle, playful, self-regulated forays into motion and stillness, sound and silence,  
a chance to dance with our own inner knowing, 
a way to encourage our embodied wisdom to flow.
And because self-care and play are essential to enlivening our creativity,
It is a magic pass that inspires us to grow, catalyzing our unique aliveness.

The trio of Painting, Poetry, & Play for the Soul is your invitation to thrive.
Your chance to reconcile your clever-minded left brain with your wise-hearted right brain.
Who would have guessed these simple elegant practices could help you feel so alive? 
Your soul knew, that’s who! The one who longs to belong, she intuitively knew.
So please, join me in this terrain of Expressive Arts. Here I am your seasoned sherpa. 
I attune well to your words and to the unspoken gestures of your inner landscape.
I welcome all of you, just as you are, encouraging you to courageously be your true self.   

~ Meris Walton

SOULFUL INTIMACY DURING SOCIAL DISTANCING

“ Staying vulnerable is a risk we have to take if we want to experience connection”.

~ Brene Brown

On January 17, 2019 the beloved poet Mary Oliver died. Her poetry has been an inspiration to so many of us for so many years. Whether I read her poems silently to myself for sustenance, or I heard her words spoken aloud in a circle of women, Ms. Oliver was a regular presence in my life. She was and still is a messenger, mentor, teacher, friend, and guiding light to many of us as we “talk story” or dance beneath a dazzling moon. 

In my Process Poetry classes, I endeavor to create an emotionally safe container where we come together and express ourselves with language. And sometimes I like to facilitate writing practice by suggesting we have an imaginary conversation with another person or spirit, a kind of playful “call and response”. It is a fun and fluid way to get our pens moving on the page. A disarming way to write, as if we are simply in conversation with a beloved friend, a compelling song, a provocative photograph, an evocative quote, or perhaps even another poet’s poem. 

In ordinary life, we are constantly in conversation with others, and just as frequently, we are talking to ourselves, inside our own busy heads! Now that we are living in these extraordinary times, where social distancing and sheltering in place are the new normal, we can sometimes feel isolated and perhaps even overwhelmed. It is vital that we discover new ways to connect and commune with each other. And it is essential that we do this in an atmosphere where we feel safe enough to be vulnerable. 

I welcome you to join me in a creative conversation, a playful call and response, where social distancing can, paradoxically, be an invitation to soulful intimacy. This current landscape asks that we be creative and explore outside the box. New paradigms and opportunities for connection are literally at our fingertips.

The “call and response” practice is one of the many that I like to do with students in my writing classes, and it is available to you, right here and now with me! It works beautifully as a catalyst to generate original poetry and prose. This way of writing is a direct conduit to our souls. And because our inner Muse loves to play in this sandbox of the imagination, there is absolutely no way to do it wrong! 

From now until the end of May, I am offering free consultations to support you in developing and sustaining your creative self-expression.

Please contact me: meriswalton@creativeresonance.me

Below I want to share with you an example of how I had my own imaginary “call and response” conversation, years ago, with Mary Oliver and her lovely poem, “Messenger”:

“MESSENGER” by Mary Oliver:

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird- 
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?
Let me keep my mind on what matters, 
Which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here, 

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart 
and these body-clothes, 
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy 
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, 
telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.

”My Response to The Messenger’s Call” by Meris Walton:

I say yes to this messenger
to her challenge here, now
in this present moment, how
to be present in this instant 
is my holy work...
Blessed coincidence,
marvelous synchronicity!
For my task too 
seems to be loving this world.

“Where two or more are gathered in my name,” it was proclaimed, 
way back when, and ever since then,
we’ve been charged with being astonished.
Admonished to be still, to be silent, and to listen well,
to be equal seekers of sweetness, to remember daily that to live fully,
is to love specifically and universally,
and in that astonishing way,
we cannot help but live forever.

April Fool’s Day: Sometimes I Forget My Mother is Dead

“...why a mother is really important...because in an interesting and maybe an eerie and unworldly way, she stands in the gap. She stands between the unknown and the known….”

~ Maya Angelou

Today would have been my mother’s 90th birthday. She was born on April 1st, 1930 and yes, it was April Fools Day. As a young girl, I loved to hear her tell the tale of how her aunts and uncles did not believe my grandfather, Meyer Joseph, when he called them up to say that my grandmother Rose had just given birth to their daughter Charlotte. “Haha! April Fools!”, they’d all laughed. 

She died more than four years ago, on January 21st, 2016, just as nighttime retreated and dawn slipped delicately into the hospital room, where I sat beside her bed. Sometimes, I  forget she is dead. I think to myself, perhaps I’ll drop by her place this afternoon, just to say hi. And occasionally, I still reach for my phone to share with her a funny story, about my three adult sons, her beloved grandsons, and then I’ll remember.  And more recently, I’ve wanted to show her photos of her new great grandson, my oldest son’s first child. Oh how she would have adored our little Silas Leo!

There are other moments that I miss as well. Watching her take up, and successfully finish, the entire Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle, in ink, no less!  Or observing with awe, on a lazy Sunday morning, how elegantly she ate a perfectly cooked soft boiled egg. I am convinced that nobody ever cracked and savored a soft cooked egg more gracefully than she. 

But make no mistake, I am not one to gloss over the other aspects of her Brooklyn personality. She was, by anyone’s measure, a true and utter “Grump”. In a world populated by scrappy assertive “Grumps” and endearing polite “Duds” (and a goodly number of hybrids), my mother fell squarely in the camp of loveable and maddening Grumps. She was never shy about voicing her opinion aloud, however fierce and negative it might come across, and regardless of the circumstance or venue. For example, even in a darkened, hushed, movie theatre, while the film was playing, and the audience was glued to the screen, she could unabashedly declare out loud to my father, “This movie is terrible!”

In remembering and writing about my mother Charlotte, I sometimes have wondered, what is there for me to say, that has not already been said, more poignantly and eloquently by other writers, about the death of their own mothers? Certainly I have nothing more profound to add. But at the same time, as I write about this singular loss, I discover that I am not only remembering her, but also nurturing my personal process, and honoring my own unique voice. And perhaps that is the significance. 

It’s not about writing some erudite polished piece. It feels more earthy, more gritty, more cellular. In this process, I am reconnecting with the powerful healing manna of creative self-expression. This potent elixir and universal healing medicine. 

Whether I am kneeling beside her grave and spontaneously writing a poem, or standing before a blank white sheet of watercolor paper, just a few weeks after her death, trembling, but trusting the paintbrush to guide me into fertile womb-like intuitive territory, I know without a doubt, I am in the gap, in a profound generative healing process.

Today, as I remember my mother Charlotte, I also notice my body is craving simple movement. I am sorely tempted to put on my mother’s favorite musical, “Singing In the Rain”. Perhaps I will shake it up a bit, move freely about the living room, in harmony with my breath, and “cut a rug” with Gene Kelly. She would like that!

What I have discovered for myself, in these past four years since my mother died, is that grieving is universal and yet so utterly personal. There exist a multitude of traditions and ceremonies throughout the world to honor our ancestors, to remember and mourn our loved ones who have gone before us. And yet it is very much a process of self-discovery, to find what is the best medicine for each of us. And it changes.

I am grateful to have the support of my children and friends and community. And I also feel so fortunate to have a vital expressive arts practice in which to process and transform. The opportunity to paint, to write, and to move has been a profound blessing for my spirit. 

My prayer for everyone is to have all the time, space, and support they need for grieving their losses and for healing. A very wise friend once said to me, regarding grief, that  “The heart takes as long as it takes.”  I have found this to be so true.

During these challenging times, and especially if there is unmetabolized grief sitting upon your own sweet heart, I invite you to reach out to me for support. I am available by phone and online, to help you manifest a nurturing expressive arts practice at home. 

Now through May, during this time of sheltering in place and social distancing, I am offering free consultations to support you in your creative self-expression.

I welcome your inquiries at: meriswalton@creativeresonance.me

And now I would like to share a poem with you that I wrote for Charlotte on 1 April 2016.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

For My Mother Charlotte

No, Mother, today is no longer your birthday, for now you are ageless,
although, just the other day, when you were merely old, 
I sat with you at table and told you stories, regaled you,
with great tales of my sons’ travels and triumphs, 
and you would scowl and “harumph”, grandma code for nay saying,
lamenting out loud their wanderlust and wild risk-taking,
all the while, grudgingly being so proud of their courage and their spirit.

But today you are not there in your wheelchair, sitting across from me,
nor are you squirming in your lift chair, in front of the TV, watching CNN or winning at Jeopardy! 
I cannot find you on the toilet, nor perched upon a bedside commode, instead
you lie inside the cold ground, beneath the shady earth at the Home of Peace Cemetery, 
with the other Jewish dead, on Meder Street.
This afternoon, when I went looking for you, bearing a bouquet of Stargazer lilies,
I could not find you, on your birthday, but not for lack of trying.

Yours is still an unmarked grave, its path not yet paved,
your name, not yet engraved upon a proper marble headstone.
It is almost a year before the unveiling, and so I had to guess where you were lying. 
Do you lie beside Karen Haber, or on the right side, two graves down, from Candy Coonerty?
I was so certain I would remember, so confident that I could find you,
but no, inside these April shadows, cast by the cemetery’s ancient Eucalyptus sentries, 
you were lost to me...again.

~ Meris Specterman Walton

1 April 2016

Process Painting In a Pandemic: My Bathroom as Painting Studio

“Creative people are curious, flexible, persistent, and independent with a tremendous spirit of adventure and love of play.”

~ Thomas Merton

I have always adored the painting studio in Oakland, California where I began my Intuitive Painting journey, over 20 years ago. The rambling old Victorian near Lake Merritt, with its tall ceilings and large light-filled windows, has been a safe cocoon, a fertile womb, for my creative self-expression. Not only for me, but for hundreds of other courageous women, and some very brave men, as well. Thank you, dear Chris Zydel and Tim Lajoie, for creating and maintaining this temple of creativity! I’ve spent many blessed days in that sacred space, immersed in the process of healing my artist’s broken heart. And then came the expansive weeklong painting retreats, first in Calistoga, California, where the resident dogs, cows, goats, and horses roamed about, just outside our studio door, peeking in at us while we painted. And then there was the magic of a weeklong retreat in Abiquiu, New Mexico, where the great diva of painting herself, Georgia O’Keefe used to live and paint. Painting outdoors in the lap of those miraculous red rock mountains was pure grace, all of us embraced by that miraculous and sublime landscape.

Then one day, about three years ago, it dawned on me, that I needed to create a space in my own home for my creative practices. As a passionate creative being, as a soul longing to reconnect and stay connected with my own heart, I realized this was essential, because I needed to practice regularly. Daily would be ideal, but at the very least, I knew a few days per week would be quite nourishing. And what I really wanted was to be able to leave my easel up and ready, so that whenever my Muse came knocking, I was available!

So I looked around my small apartment, and although there are no floor to ceiling windows, nor any patches of outdoor garden space in which to plant my easel, no red rock mountains nearby, nor horses passing by to peek into my windows, I was determined to cobble together a “studio”. In my sweet, but decidedly petite apartment, with its standard 8 foot ceilings, I was dreaming into possibilities, and hatching a plan, with a good bit of humor. And what revealed itself to me was that the bathroom, yes the bathroom, was the only obvious option. So I set about fashioning a fine little painting studio space right in there, between the bathtub and sink.

I went to my local art supplies store and bought a big piece of thick cardboard, along with a dozen or so tempera paints, several brushes, sponges, and a plastic tray to plop my paints on. When I got home, I immediately propped the “easel” up against the glass bricks of my bathtub/shower. And I set out my art supplies on the counter behind me. The empty quart size yogurt containers I’d been collecting for months were ready, and I filled two of them with a bit of water. Then I gleefully began to squirt red and gold and green paint onto my tray. Voila! I had cobbled together my own private, personal, unique, and admittedly goofy little painting studio.

And thank goodness I did, because now that we are living in a time of a global pandemic, now that we are required to shelter in place, to perhaps even self-quarantine at times, I am profoundly grateful that I have my easel, paints, palette, and brushes near at hand.

Almost every day, I paint for at least 15 minutes, and often I will go longer than that. The best part for me, is that I do not ever have to take the painting down, until it is finished with me! And sometimes that means the painting is up for days, weeks, or even months. And I can return again and again to ask the painting what it wants from me. What color, shape, or image wants to be there, and where on the page it wants to be. And what I have noticed, ever since gifting myself this humble, unconventional “home studio”, is that my practice has deepened, simply because I paint regularly. As with any practice, from music to meditation, from dancing to singing, writing, cooking, gardening, learning a new language, practicing yoga, whatever the passion and curiosity is, it is essential to create a dedicated space and time to practice. A space at home that can support that dream. For my writing practice, I have a cozy table and chair beside the window, overlooking the ocean, where I can write my poems and blogs, whenever the Muse comes knocking or whispering in my ears. I have learned it is essential to obey her!

I invite and encourage you to explore where you might put an easel, a stool, a table and a comfortable chair, in your own home, to give yourself the gift of a home painting and/or writing practice. You deserve it! And of course, I am available to support you in cultivating your painting and writing practices. In this moment of epic global uncertainty, we can play together, remotely, to manifest this vision. I can provide you with information regarding resources to order supplies online, delivered to your door, so that you can begin your practice. And then one day, hopefully in the near future, I would love to share the inspiration and joy that comes from participating in a class or workshop with other creatives. I welcome your soul, mind, and body to join me now at: Creative Resonance: Painting, Poetry & Play for the Soul!

Now through May, I am offering free consultations. For more information, please contact me at: meriswalton@creativeresonance.me

And below is a poem I wrote about wholeheartedly welcoming in the Muse:

Listening to My Muse Wherever and Whenever She Calls

When my Muse arrives on the scene, I do not argue with her like I used to,
I no longer deny her presence as a mere figment of my imagination,
instead I celebrate her as a precious gift of creative inspiration,
as essential as the air I breathe for life.
I’ve learned, the hard way, that if I am to survive and thrive as an artist,
I best pull up a chair, pull out my pens and paper,
get out of my own way, pay rapt attention, and start taking dictation.

I obey her will, not mine, although admittedly,
it has not always been quite so fine, for me to trust this process.
My pesky inner critical voice was full of doubt and fear,
constantly interfering, and my terrified ego dared to question her more than once.
But over time, I learned to surrender and settle down,
allowing myself to engage in playful collaboration,
with my sassy, confounding, and mystifying Muse.

This is her show, and when she shows up on the runway of my blank pages,
spewing poetry and prose on post-its, the backs of envelopes, or takeout napkins, I’m all in.
Meanwhile, back in my makeshift studio, the play of pastels, the spray of neon greens,
the display and glamor of glitter, all pitter pattering upon the page, is a total blast!
Even crayola crayons from childhood’s past reappear, clamoring up the canvas at long last.
Honestly, why would my ego reject my Muse when she appears?
I mustn’t object, she sputters, I’d best bow down and vow to be present, be utterly here now!

To ignore her is futile, akin to postponing oxytocin flowing in my veins,
stimulating my blood, bones, and creative birthing pains!
What gal can say “No” to this mysterious labor and delivery?
When Nature calls, we remember our wild true nature, …implicitly.
We recall deep in our chests, hearts, and breasts what is essential, and we respond explicitly.
We respect and heed our creative musings, listen well to our sacred siren songs,
do our best to banish self-doubt, and our initial impulse to clear out of here,
lest our Muse feel disrespected, and languish in the shadows for years,
or worse, completely vanish, leaving us, and simply disappearing.

~ Meris Walton

I am Generation Equality: Realizing Women’s Rights

“I matter. I matter equally. Not ‘If only’, not ‘As long as’. I matter. Full stop.”

~ Chimamanda Adichie, Nigerian writer

My goodness, what a difference a month makes! Yesterday was my 64th birthday and it was just a month ago, on Sunday, 23 February, that I had the privilege of facilitating an Intuitive Painting class in Santa Cruz, California for 6 fabulous women. It was inspiring and exhilarating to be with each and everyone of these courageous souls, as they engaged with their creative mojo, full stop! What a pleasure it was for me to witness them, as they co-created a potent field, a safe container, where each of them could connect with their own deep and nourishing process.                       

Today it is 23 March, one day after my 64th birthday, and a full month after that thrilling workshop. What an intense month this has been, and continues to be, for the entire world!  March has always been a meaningful month for me. It is the month of my birthday and the birthday of my oldest son. It is the start of spring in the northern hemisphere, with its promise of warmer weather, blooming fragrant flowers, and brighter sunnier skies. It is also Women’s History Month, and on March 8th, the worldwide celebration of International Women’s Day. 

On both a personal and universal level, this is a potent time for me to reflect upon my life, my family, my friends, my community, my personal path, the call to be of service, and the global sisterhood of women throughout the world. This is a time to shine a spotlight on what I call the inclusive “We”. And so it is absolutely perfect that this year’s theme for International Women’s Day is, “I Am Generation Equality: Realizing Women’s Rights”. How timely to remind the world that each of us, that all of us, “matter equally...full stop”.

In this time of global pandemic, it is essential to remember that each of us matters, that all of us matter, equally. Especially now, when the whole world is reeling, and none of us knows precisely how long this crisis will go on, it is even more vital to be inclusive, kind, and generous. And to honor and remember the nourishing ways of the deep feminine. And by that, I simply mean that it would be beneficial to welcome and include our inherent, intuitive, feminine wisdom along with the invaluable masculine qualities of logic and science, within and available to all us. 

It is understandable and predictable that in times of great stress, we tend to activate our adrenaline and cortisol responses, and we go into fight, flight, freeze, or faint mode. That is useful in short term moments of crisis. It can even be life saving. However, in this time of global uncertainty, a time of prolonged stress that may go on for an indefinite length of time, a different response is recommended. And although it may seem counterintuitive,  it is absolutely life affirming and essential to slow down, go inward toward the stillness, and cultivate nourishing calming practices. There is potency in the paradoxical. While there is the temptation to amp up and accelerate as the world around us appears to do, we can help ourselves and those we love, by slowing down instead, and becoming a resource. Because calm is contagious too!

Throughout the ages, women and men who have connected to their intuitive wisdom have been beacons of inspiration and hope. This infectious inspiration is what is being called for, here and now, on our beautiful Island Earth. We are being asked to be kind, generous, and collaborative. To include the ways of the wise and sacred feminine along with the wise and sacred masculine. 

That is what I witnessed a month (and a lifetime ago) on 23 February 2020 in my painting studio. That Sunday, those fabulous women gathered to reconnect with their own hearts and souls, to connect with their intuition, aliveness,  and creativity. And to connect with one another in a kiva of creative self-expression. A place of support and no judgement. A container of play and potency. A place of deep remembering and empowerment. A womb room where something new could be born on the canvas, welcomed into a circle of deft and wise intuitive midwives.

There is soul nourishment in the practice of creative self-expression. There is the potential for healing through self-acceptance and play. There is the promise for self-empowerment as we welcome all of ourselves into the circle of creatives. Every part of us matters...full stop!

Yes I matter. Yes you matter. Yes we matter, equally. Full stop.

I invite you to contact me at: meriswalton@creativeresonance.me to explore and play in the realm of creative self-expression. 

And now through the end of May, I am offering free consultations to help you facilitate your very own expressive arts practices at home!

Below I will share a poem that I wrote, a few years ago, and shared at the February 23, 2020 workshop. I look forward to hearing from you very soon!

WHAT THRILLS ME ABOUT INTUITIVE PAINTING

Of course, it is the brush that thrills me
and it’s no secret, I have a mad crush on crimson and gold,
but it’s that gang of Euro-trash temperas that tempt me into trouble,
those bold bad blues that woo me, shamelessly seduce me,
crooning their steamy cobalt tunes with every stroke.

I go weak in the knees when I’m alone in the studio,
unchaperoned with all that glitter and glue,
and if you must know, those naughty neons come on to me,
their jaunty hues taunting me, but what really haunts me, and gets my juices flowing,
are the jewel tones, because of their classic jazz, I simply cannot say, “No”.

The studio is like a magic theatre, a wookie outpost, a candy store,
an especially seductive and instructive portal,
ideally constructed for “recovering perfectionists” like me,
a wholly sketchy, but altogether fetching neighborhood,
powerful medicine for a lapsed “good girl”, on the threshold of elderhood.

In this kiva of creativity, it is my Muse who chooses just about everything.
Like the diva she is, she makes her own rules and suffers no fools.
She is bossy about color, shape, and image, and I mean bossy!
From the corner of the room, she’ll wink, jingle her brass bangles, and bling,
encourage me to be more badass with magenta, argentum, and aubergine!

My Muse shows up whenever I paint, or write, whether or not I invite her.
She is disarming, charming, infuriating, and consistently right...a true shapeshifter.
It is pointless to resist her, she insists there is magic in imagination,
and she is big on old fashioned, roll up your sleeves determination.
But mostly, she gives me unconditional permission to envision my dreams.

You ask what grabs me? My Muse grabs me, when I descend into shame.
She pulls me up, helps me reframe, and tames my inner critic,
exclaims in no uncertain terms, how I must reclaim my creative mojo.
She explains, without apology, that my family mythology, is simply a story,
proclaiming it was once worth excavating, but now it’s time for cremating.

This is when ochre, mocha, celadon green, and sports car scarlet come on the scene,
infusing my paint brushes with implausible, dreamtime, color schemes!
My magic tempera torches beckon my inner demons in, and in they come,
dressed to the nines, in valentine fuchsia, malachite, and day-glo pistachio!
I offer sepia tea to warm them, wrap my sienna-toned arms around them,
adorn them in celestial plumes, anoint them in lapis, indigo, and cerulean blues.

My Muse chooses their entire ensemble, from tangerine bras to chartreuse socks,
like a four year old, sugared out, personal shopper, she outfits them utterly outside the box!
Even if it is feathered mythical creatures in sequins and fins, she requires my compliance,
this tyrannical teacher features full blown toddler tantrums, if I’m not in total alliance!
She insists that I trust the brush, the wisdom of chutzpah, and my own good heart and guts.

I obey, because here, there is permission and compassion for creativity,
a greenhouse for cross-pollinating passion and expressivity,
a safe place to be wild, where I can cross-train in poetry, painting, and play.
Where I may cobble together a poem, then hobble over to my easel, with humor, and pray.
Yes, I said pray, because in this reverent irreverent mandala, we play and we pray with paint.

Here where wild women soiree, displaying hot pink rakish humor in one iteration,
then drench the page with heart wrenching ebony in their next creation,
these “paint whisperers” bravely litter the page, with their ten thousand joys and sorrows,
singing and chanting, stomping and ranting their fluorescent invocations,
merrily flinging paint into feisty, original, iridescent, predictable miracles.

Intuitive Painting is not logical, it is mythological, not linear but cellular.
In this sacred womb, the Mystery proffers potent clues, long ago buried in subterranean tombs, unconscious crypts,
crammed full of voluptuous ghosts, and personal taboos.
In this temple of improvisation, we worship where there is energy and creative juice,
following the elysium thread of our own aliveness, trusting in the conversation with our Muse.

~ Meris Walton