“I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.” -Anaïs Nin — The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955
It’s a curious paradox of the inner world: I can spend a busy week craving dedicated time for contemplation, connection with myself, and the creative output that comes with it. But then when that longed-for moment arrives, I often find myself empty-headed and uninspired. Where is the muse, whose siren song I listened to all week long?
The opposite also holds true. When I sit down to meditate, offering the mind a free opportunity for much-needed rest, it often seizes that particular moment for its most engaging mental work. Thoughts clarify, connections form, insights bloom — all when the demand to ‘work’ has been lifted and replaced with a demand to relax.
It’s as if desire itself creates an inner pressure that stifles whatever it seeks.
When I hold the pen lightly, that’s when some real writing gets done. Hold on too tight, and the body cramps up. It’s a delicate instrument best directed by intention rather than force of will.
Whose idea is it, anyway?
A further paradox emerges within the creative process: my mind invents a project, develops a plan for it, sells me on the idea, and then loses interest. On to more novel enterprises. I’m left with an inspired idea and no one willing to work on it.
This raises the question of identity: Whose idea is the project? And who is it that’s feeling inspired, if not the one who came up with it? Who would complete it, if not me? Why can’t I just do it?
I want to believe that the body and mind I find myself connected to are “mine,” that they belong to me and I am their master. But that doesn’t seem to be what’s happening at all. It seems there’s an entirely different type of relationship occurring.
Inner folk magic
(or, “Faery magic in the Garden of Eden”)
Experientially, this “mind” I’m dealing with is like a wellspring. I sit by it and watch all manner of thoughts, ideas, words, and deeds flow out from some unknown depths.
And, in some mysterious way, it seems I can send in requests that are sometimes fulfilled. I commune with the spirits of the water, intoning prayers in the frequencies that stir from their depths the ancient dream images that shape my lived reality.
This idea of an inner folk magic seems actually a very apt metaphor. So what does it tell me about the nature of the subjective self in the relationship? And can it inform the method of bringing ideas to fruition? Can the unconscious be coaxed to deliver its stream in a particular form long enough for it to be completed?
Bard of the woods
(Or, “In service to the gods…”)
It occurs to me, then, that this is a discussion of the conscious and unconscious minds — the master and his emissary. Except in this scenario, it would be “I, the conscious mind,” who is the emissary. And to an unknown and unknowable master, no less.
But I do not think the true order of things is so simple. For one, I suspect “the unconscious” is no more unitary than “the conscious mind” — which changes things around on me all the time! (on “me”)
Who am I, then, when even the conscious mind, upon inspection, winds up being something separate and inspectable? Am I a ghost in the machine, a floating awareness, a flea on the back of being? Even such an etheric formulation falls apart: I can think of myself as the fairy by the lake, negotiating my piece out of the dealings between states of mind, but when it comes time to examine what it’s like to be such a thing, there is always a vantage point further outside the equation — a self-state which observes and admires my woodland cunning.
The only constant, it seems, is the presence of a narrative — some concept of who “I” am and how all these parts fit together. Each concept can be subsumed by another: now I am the hero of the story; then I am the storyteller; and finally I am the story itself.
The psychology of self
My conclusion is that identity is but one concept within a swirling ocean of ideation, out of which the forms of life and of consciousness are emergent and temporary concentrations. The sense of there being an “I” is fragile, easily disrupted by changes in organismic or environmental context.
For example, noticeable gaps in memory are common around major and unexpected life changes — and less noticeable ones are ubiquitous. Disturbances of identity are normal around major losses (we call this “grief”) or traumas.
The self, then, is the pattern of continuity between experiences, continuously updated as our thoughts and perceptions evolve.
What I experience as an outside actor, sitting by the well of creation, is only another of the forms flowing out. And, likely, what I perceive as gods lurking beneath the earth’s crust, singing the parade of evolution into existence, are only more notes within the song.
So, then, to the practical matter: how do I get things done?
How to get things done
I’d say the first part of the question is actually, “what things should get done?”
If the inspiration and motivation to act are both emerging as a part of this project of self, of producing an ongoing relationship within the wild streams of consciousness, then the first task is draw the threads of experience together. Creative drive is move toward integration — unification of opposing currents into a coherent pattern. This is what Jung called individuation: the wider and more inclusive the boundaries of self become, the more resilient my perspective becomes.
Without uniting the opposing currents, any single pattern can be easily wiped out. This can be seen in the psychology of religious and political cults — the biological equipment is the same, but the identity program was too brittle and so gave way to a stronger current. You become a whole different self, and never know the difference.
So, the creative impulse is a part of the integrative drive to survival of self. A human persona is a meme, an eddy within a thunderous rapids. My very existence is the current of experience I am able to absorb and transform. My work, then, should serve that purpose.
But of course, it is possible to survive for a very long time in a state of utter despair. To know in your bones that you are hanging on to existence by a bare thread, and to feel every bit of the tension, fear, and solemnity which that implies.
So I’d say the second priority is to cultivate, within this continuity of selfhood, an experience that is as delightful as possible. Can I find ways to joyously participate in the wild onslaught of life?
Seeing through the game
Now I arrive at a final and most important paradox in the pursuit of delight: the most delightful experience of all is freedom from the need for permanence. To glimpse, from a position of psychological security, the transience and artifice of self within the unfathomable flow of possible ideation.
There are an infinite number of possible identifications for me within this stream of life; *none of them can last very long.*There are infinite games to play; all are simply games. Nothing — and I mean nothing — can ever be permanent. Nothing I make, but also no form of self can ever remain me for that long.
To realize and accept this state of affairs eliminates all fear. Who is there to even fear for? This is also why, conversely, the most terrifying experience is to glimpse the very same reality from a position of psychological insecurity. As Joseph Campbell put it, “The psychotic drowns in the same waters in which the mystic swims with delight.”
So, the maximally delightful pursuit is that which satisfies both conditions: enhancing psychological security while drawing deeply from that well of unconscious ideation — which transcends selfhood, and the ability to reasonably “take credit.”
To do that, I must train the mind, cultivating its ability to embrace a broader range of inner experience, to cast an ever wider net of identification — while simulataneously taking refuge in the transience of identification, the freedom from having to be anything for more than a moment.
The more widely the field of experience can be incorporated into the pattern of continuity we call “self,” the more secure a position selfhood becomes. It stops being something which must be generated and protected and becomes instead something creatively discovered, as a work of art is as much a product of discovery as of intention.
The method of artful living
And so I begin to approach a synthesis. The art of ‘getting things done’ with deepest satisfaction lies in skillfully integrating persistent intention with the joyful freedom of exploration for its own sake.
To create, then, is not to force the mind toward a fixed destination but to navigate the flow of ideas with intentionality and openness. It is to hold the pen lightly, to embrace the transitory nature of selfhood, and to discover art not as a product of will, but as an emergent harmony between the conscious and unconscious. In doing so, we create — not only works of art but also the worlds in which we can truly breathe.