Ritual

Creativity begins long before the first mark is made

Ask any artist about their process and most will begin by talking about rituals—-not the spooky kind, but the quiet, intentional acts that precede any creative session, the ones that ready our creative muscles.

For me, rituals are like the stretching I do before physical exercise.

I begin each day with an hour-long recovery meeting. If I don’t safeguard my sobriety, my creativity won’t last long. If I were to fill any longing with alcohol or drugs, I would extinguish that creative flame within me. So even after eighteen years, I suit up and I show up.

Since signing a one-year lease on my studio in February, I’ve become aware of the small, steady steps I take each time I turn the key in the lock of Studio 206, every weekday morning, and sometimes on Saturdays.

By 8:00 a.m., I make the short commute to my second-floor studio in a historic mill, where I continue the rituals that have become stepping stones to whatever creative venture awaits me.

Parking is abundant at that hour, so I choose a spot close to the main entrance. I hoist my laptop, briefcase, and any supplies I’ve gathered the day before, climb the eighteen stairs, and walk down the hall to 206. This morning, I happily hauled my heavy-duty Singer sewing machine up those stairs after a five-week stay at a nearby repair shop.

Before entering this sacred space, I remove my shoes and slip on a pair of flip-flops I keep by the door. The act is both humbling and grounding. It reminds me to leave whatever is troubling me outside. The studio is not for brooding.

I light a candle—-usually pine—-and tuck my lunch into the small red refrigerator. Pine is said to clear blocks and sharpen focus. I buy the candles by the case during the holidays and burn them year-round.

At the worktable, I set down my laptop and coffee mug. If I haven’t balanced my checkbook the night before, I do it then. I need a clear mind before I begin.

If it feels like a writing day—-and thanks to Morning Pages, every day does—-I move to one of my pink velvet chairs and begin drafting my Substack notes or the week’s column.

If it feels like a painting day, I tie on my denim apron, gather paper, pigments, and tools, and turn on soft music. From that moment until I leave—usually by early afternoon—the studio door remains locked and my phone stays on silent.

It may sound harsh, but anyone who protects their creative time will understand: I’m not here to make friends.

I’m here to remove the distance between myself and the divine. My muse is more likely to reveal her secrets if I honor her presence.

I keep it simple. I keep it humble. I keep it peaceful. And I allow—-allow spirit to move me wherever I need to go.

When it’s time to leave, I practice one final ritual. With a nod to Ernest Hemingway, I leave something unfinished, a thread I can pick up the next day.

Then I blow out the candle, unplug the kettle, slip back into my street shoes, lock the pink door, and send up a quiet prayer of gratitude for this wildly creative life.

(If my words spoke to you today and you’d like to support my work in a small way, you can leave a token of appreciation below. No obligation, just gratitude.)