It's Only Rock n' Roll, (but he loves it).

I recently listened to all 20 discs of Keith Richard's autobiography "Life" and loved it. How the man remained as musically productive while battling a heroin addiction for as many years as he did is fairly mind-blowing, but what is truly impressive is his pure love of music. He received his first guitar in his mid-teens and before long began developing an encyclopaedic knowledge of American rhythm and blues. This infatuation became the basis of his friendship with Mick Jagger, who grew up not far from Richards, but in a much better part of town. Different classes, same love of the blues.

What really kept me hooked on Richards' story was not just the escapades - the over-zealous cops in Arkansas, the Anita Pallenberg years, and the drug binges - followed by numerous punishing attempts to kick the habit before he finally did - it was his clear love of music and respect for musicianship. At his core he's a working class guy who's made it extremely good and knows it, but his values and work ethic remain very grounded. For lack of a more interesting way to put it, for Richards it really is all about the music. He remains curious and (surprisingly, because this is Keith Bloody Richards!) has even experienced doubts about his ability to succeed at new aspects of music. Specifically, it took him nine months before he gathered the courage to try his hand at songwriting. Once he did, it was apparent he had a talent for it and it became for him a major means of self-expression. "It was sheer pleasure and an unexpected gift I didn’t know I had" he says about songwriting. The fact that this super-human musician would be reticent to try anything new - so he is human? - was a great reminder that anyone, at any stage of life or level of success, can experience doubts about their abilities. I'm thinking this is a good thing to remember if you keep yourself out of the running before you even begin because you're not "one of them." "Them" being one of those "sprinkled with fairy-dust, they must have something I don't" kind of people, the likes of which stop you from trying something you really ought to try and soon. Like, now.

Yes, let's!

Artwork outside Museum of Fine Art, Boston.

This is how we'd kick off each improv class last winter, with a game called "Yes, let's!" (Saying 'yes' to something in a scene is one of the basic rules of improv, because a 'no' shuts it right down). Doing improv was probably some of the most fun I've ever had - I mean, ridiculous fun, laughter bubbling forth like a babbling brook kind of fun. The simple premise of Yes, Let's! is that someone in the group suggests we do something; "Let's act like we just ate a whole wheel of cheese and it's disagreeing with us!" to which everyone responds "Yes, let's!" and then we stumble around the room acting out our interpretation of what that would be like. Then someone makes another suggestion, say "Let's say we're martians who have just learned to dance the watusi!" "Yes, let's!" If in the first class this doesn't help you shed a few inhibitions, not much will. Stumbling about like a drunkard, rolling on the floor, scratching like a chimp - these are what I call ice breakers.

Improv is about a lot of things. It's about spontaneity, but it's also about making your partner look good. It's about listening as much as it is about speaking up. It's not about being funny, but often it ends up being very fun indeed. One thing I struggled with the most was trusting myself enough to jump in a scene when it was running out of juice. If your friends are up their floundering, you've got to support them by jumping in. Say anything, but don't stay on the sidelines! I would literally rock in my chair - jump in, but what are you gonna say? jump in!!" I also had the nasty habit of apologizing if I felt I'd screwed up (but I knew going in that was going to be one of my demons, so no surprise there).

Building a scene, a character, a rapport, trusting your instinct, a willingness to experiment and make mistakes, the joy of feeling a scene take off - all this to me is very creative. It's ongoing and joyful and telling. There's an expression I like in yoga, that you "meet yourself on the mat." To me, this means you encounter your way of thinking - your self-judgements, your competitive streak, when you feel inadequate or crave a little stroking. It's revealing and the same goes with improv. You learn a helluva lot about yourself up there - not all comfortable realizations, either - and you witness change, too. It's fascinating and risky and open-ended and can be hard, just like life, but you're forced to jump in, one way or t'other. It kicks your ass, but sometimes that ain't all bad.

Life Ain't No Damn Bowl of Cherries

Nor is it a purchased-only-yesterday, golden glass seashell ashtray of cherries either. I say this in reference to day-to-day put on yer pants and get going living, but more specifically about how life seems to require a lot of nimbleness. If you are wondering what that statement has to do with creativity, you're not alone. (Ha! Just kidding!) No seriously, I think creating, fashioning, crafting - you name it - your life takes nimbleness. And dexterity. Patience (with yourself, mostly) mixed with perseverance. Hope.

This is on my mind because I'm now committing myself to figuring out what else I want to do, besides teaching. I'm working on this with someone - and what a find she is - talking about past jobs and interests and writing lots of crap down. (The good kind of crap). Also as of yesterday I'm reading a book called Finding Your Own North Star and based on the introduction alone I'm reminded that a lot of people, if not most, hit a point where they feel they've gotten off track completely or at least feel estranged from what they were meant to do with themselves. And that's a really painful place to be. Panic-inducing, discombobulating, stymieing. The book begins with a quote by a guy called Dan (age 41, but he could be any age, or a chick* for that matter) and goes as follows:

"Right in the middle of my life, I realized that I wasn't where I wanted to be. It was like I'd wandered off the right path into a very, very bad neighbourhood. I don't even want to remember how scary that space was - makes me feel like I'm gonna die or something. I'm only telling you about it because a lot of good came from it in the long run. So anyway, I don't even know how I ended up so off course. I felt like I'd been sleepwalking."

In reality, Dan is Dante Alighieri and this is from the first few lines of his The Divine Comedy, 1307. So let's just say that this kind of confusion has been happening to people of all ages since at least the Middle Ages. I don't know about you, reader (assuming someone will read this), but I find this comforting. I also take comfort in the fact that Dante did find his way out and that though the journey can be hard sometimes, it's also very (very) rewarding. This according to author Martha Beck, but I tend to believe her. Better still, that you need not reinvent yourself from scratch, indeed that the answers you seek, the talents and skills - some even transferrable! - are there already. You might need to hone them or rely on something or someone outside of yourself to help you get there, but the foundation is there already. (Didn't I warn you that this post would be rambling and wordy? No?)

I am not sure how to wind this up, but just to say that I like the notion that finding 'home,' or your stella polaris, or purpose - of living your life and yes, meeting your responsibilities is something that you fashion. It's ongoing. You won't be good at everything, but you've got to be bloody good at some things. Go there.

* I don't find chick to necessarily be a put-down. Depends on how it's used, is all.

It's a Start

After years of collecting fabric, I have recently taken up sewing. I had my machine tuned up this spring - key to getting it to work properly, while exponentially lowering my (creative, I must say) swear quotient. I even took a few hours of lessons from a fab instructor. (Nicole Picard, that's you). I can't tell you how many times I stopped and started, both here in Montreal and back in Hoboken, NJ shoulders hunched over machine. Thread clustered into fist-sized jumbles, tongue curled over top lip as I followed the instructions and retraced the threading channel on my kick-ass Pfaff. Such inspiring fabric, with colours and patterns that make me want to gather it up and bury my face in it, so beautiful that I became afraid to cut into it. Damn, what if I ruin it?

My grandmother MarieAnne (Daigneault) Kelahear was a fantastically-talented seamstress. My Mum has told me how she loved beautiful fabric and how before each project she undertook - not for pleasure, mostly, but because they needed the income - she would wash the floors before laying out the fabric to cut it. So part of this is a way to connect with a grandmother I have but one or two memories of, but whom my sisters recall with great fondness.

So what changed? Well, I got tired of carting all this fabric around every time I moved. I found it ridiculous to continuously be that afraid to make a mistake - in and of itself, that became unacceptable. I asked for and got assistance. I loved every bloody minute of it - the instruction, the hum and satisfaction of guiding the fabric beneath the needle. Seeing something take shape before my eyes. Feeling that same joy of discovery and accomplishment, mistakes be damned, that you get when you're a kid, before the adult in you starts to reason away your impulses. (OK, some impulses need to be curbed, but not all).

I finished the dress last evening, from a fabric I bought in NYC six years ago before I left, one of those fabrics I like so much I wish I could eat it. If you look too closely at the frock (great word, frock), you'll find mistakes - so just don't look too closely! Lots of wasted thread and soothing swear words and now one new dress. I like this momentum.