I don’t know if it’s my age, but my deepest self has been calling out to me for the past five years. It began as a whisper, growing more insistent as I moved further away from her. Then, it came on real heavy when my body plunged into issues of panic and anxiety, culminating in a year-and-a-half-long manic episode that resulted in a bipolar 2 diagnosis. Suddenly, my deepest self was screaming, “Help!”

"Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional."

This phrase, often attributed to Haruki Murakami and rooted in Buddhist teachings, serves as a reminder, a mantra of sorts, especially when it comes to creativity.

I rely on this wisdom as part of my toolkit whenever my artistic endeavors—my very essence as an artist—go unnoticed or ignored. Which is a lot. Especially when you create a lot.

In my latest work, I've discovered creativity through sculpting: subtraction, not addition.

By sculpting, I mean stripping away the unnecessary, refining each moment to its simplest moment. It's through this process of removal that I've reached to the core of what I intended to create.

Working in this way requires a deep trust in oneself, and in the process, but can be very effective.

Just as art often mirrors life, authenticity is crucial. (I know I know…authenticity is often overused, but nevertheless)... When we hide behind elaborate and elevated extraneous words, (like I just did there), heavy/confusing plot lines, exaggerated personalities, or status symbols, our creative expression can falter—at least, that’s been my experience.

I took a brief pause in my 100-day writing project — a pause of one week, to be exact. This past weekend, I had a major performance, and to maintain my balance, I—drumroll, please—paused.

I recently came across a beautiful phrase attributed to the pianist Arthur Rubinstein. When asked how he handles the notes so adeptly, he replied, 'I handle the notes no better than many others, but the pauses—ah! That is where the art resides.'

Before my father passed away, he entrusted me with his copy of "Conversations With God." I admit, I was always skeptical about this book. Despite my reservations, I preserved it, sensing its significance. Notably, it contained a note penned in my dad's handwriting within its sleeve.

As a younger person, I was put off by the mere mention of God in the title. I grappled with the concept of God, and I was convinced that the author was merely engaging in a monologue, cleverly disguised as a divine dialogue. This seemed like a gimmick—a way to craft a conversation with "God," document it, and market a book. My cynical side failed to recognize that I was on the verge of doing something remarkably similar.

This morning, I stumbled upon an idea that sparked my curiosity—engaging in a creative writing exercise with an unusual partner: my own back. Yes, you read that right. It's a conversation with my back. As I delve into innovative methods of tuning into my body, I've realized the potential of such exercises. They're not just about listening; they're about engaging in a dialogue. So, I set out to ask questions and document the responses from this often-ignored part of myself. Let's see what secrets and insights my back holds.

Here’s how it went.

Picture this: a person is so convinced that losing their shadow would make them happy, they spend their whole life running from it. But no matter how fast or far they run, that shadow sticks around like it’s glued to their heels. Eventually, they run themselves ragged and just can’t go anymore.

What if there’s a better way? Imagine if instead of running, they just stopped, found a nice tree, and chilled out in its shade for a while. They might see that their shadow isn’t something scary to outrun, but a part of who they are—something to sit down with, not sprint away from.

I think a lot about my internal drive for achievement, and my unconscious drive for fame.

I suppose I shouldn’t say it’s unconscious, because here I am, writing it down.

I heard Arthur Brooks talk to Dan Harris about the four idols: money, power, pleasure, and fame.

The most dopamine comes from these not very satisfying rewards.

But, they are so satisfying, aren’t they?

My idol, fame, isn’t quite the conventional construct. Truthfully, I don’t aspire to traditional fame; I believe it would overwhelm me. Given my chronic illness, my body could not withstand the constant demands.

'Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you're supposed to be?' is often credited to Charles Bukowski, though it’s not certain he actually said it. Let’s assume he did, or someone like him did.

These days, a big part of my creative life involves shedding layers of cultural conditioning to rediscover the joyous creator I was at ten years old, who made things just for the sake of making them.

In theater and comedy, being great means being bold. This is often described as "taking a big swing."

What does it mean to take a big swing?

It refers to those crucial moments where you put everything on the line with a bold move. This isn't about playing it safe; it’s about risking it all for the chance to make a significant impact. When you take a big swing, you could indeed fail—I've been there, experiencing the sting when the expected laughter doesn't come, and the room falls silent. Sometimes, what you try might not work, leaving your efforts unnoticed.

I could spend all day, every day, listening to stories about people discovering their purpose. Chances are, you feel the same way.

We humans are perpetual seekers, endlessly asking ourselves, "What is my purpose?"

I'd welcome any medium—be it a YouTube channel, a blog, a book, a podcast, or even a message delivered by pigeon—that could offer insights into finding my life's purpose.

Time and again, I find myself searching for guidance from others on how to uncover this elusive quest.

Dear Creative Friend,

You have something within you.

Something that needs to be said.

Is it a lyric?

A painting?

An essay on love?

A melody that wants to be shaped?

Is it just something as simple as sharing a truth for the first time?

It is waiting for you to release it from inside you.

The phenomenal Netflix series "Baby Reindeer" first captured audiences' imaginations as a one-person show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2019.

As I near the conclusion of this captivating series, I am continually reminded of the journey I am on—crafting my own one-person show that pushes the limits of what live performance can be. This show not only entertains but also inspires, reaffirming my commitment to innovating within the theatrical space.

But here's the crux of my journey: I embarked on this creative path many years ago, despite the skepticism. A few voices, though well-intentioned, expressed doubts. "Hmm...I don't think that'll work," they said. Their comments were mild, yet they lodged in my mind, sowing seeds of uncertainty about my vision.

On this day 25, a poem.

I wish people were better

I wish people would let go

Drop the act and simply be

As the world spins, it spins and spins

I feel a blanket of anxiety has turned us all into zombies that are just waiting

Waiting for you to fuck up

But you cannot say how you really feel

You must make it better for others

Instinctually you make them feel better about their own anxiety

Because you want to be better

And it’s exhausting.

Finding what is uniquely yours demands more than mere rationality; it requires learning to understand the language of your body. As Boyd Varty suggests, "You have to learn how your body speaks."

Much of my current work revolves around breathwork, embracing a slower pace, and tuning into my inner experiences.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I spent the first half of my life doing quite the opposite.

Instead of looking inward, I pushed forward, completely ignoring the signals my body was trying to send me.

Even with a plan in place, a new kind of anxiety often emerges: the pressure to deliver. My strategy for managing this stress is to set what's known as a stretch goal—an objective that's challenging yet achievable, pushing my boundaries without leading to overwhelm.

A stretch goal should be just out of your comfort zone, enough to spark growth and learning. For instance, you might challenge yourself to perform at an open mic night, sign up for a local TEDx talk, or host a calligraphy workshop at a community maker’s event. Each of these goals requires courage but remains within the realm of attainable.

Choosing to push our limits inevitably brings us face to face with our deepest fears, such as the anxiety of public reception and the daunting prospect of actual execution. Currently, I find myself wrestling with the decision to add a Wednesday night performance to my solo show—a notion I've been contemplating for two weeks, yet hesitating to finalize.

Imagine the moment of surprise when a tracker raises their head to find that the familiar has faded away, replaced by the unfamiliar. Such moments, often unsettling, are chances to see one's surroundings—and oneself—with fresh eyes.

Sometimes, trackers find themselves so far off the known paths that they feel utterly disoriented, unable to discern up from down. This 'Path of Not Here' is a poignant analogy for those times in our lives when traditional markers of progress and direction fail us.

The key for me is in taking short creative strides, mixed with longer moments of rest. Rest could mean anything: doing the dishes, taking a nap, dusting the piano, reading a blog article. Rest, medium warm up again of something inspired, and then a short creative sprint again.

Some mornings, it feels like I wake up with a mind overflowing with thoughts.

On these days, I find myself caught between the desire to tackle everything and the overwhelming urge to do nothing at all. My mind becomes a blizzard of scattered thoughts.

This is the opaqueness of the mind.

When a torrent of thoughts, fears, and mundane tasks cloud the lightness of being, it’s tempting to give in—to dismiss the day as uncreative and uninspired.

I'm creating my own understanding of spirituality that respects the deep feelings within me and the quiet times when I reflect. It's a path that leads not only to greater understanding but to deep personal change as well. As we explore this idea, it’s important to remember that our spirituality is deeply personal, as unique and detailed as the complex patterns of our experiences.

Spirituality, to me, is about connecting deeply with my core self—the part of me that's always been there, from birth until the end. It’s about growing into someone wise and complete.

You might use different words for it—'inner self,' 'true nature,' or anything that feels right. It's that unchanging part of you, who you really are at your core.

Spirituality is about recognizing that you are composed of stardust, radiating with love.

It connects you to the legacy of your ancestors—crafted from the same dust as your parents, grandparents, and all who came before them. This same essence flows onward into your children, their children, and all who will follow.