*Typing*

Tanhā is the Buddhist term for thirst, desire or longing. When we are overwhelmed with a feeling of Tanhā, we do what the Buddhists call clinging or grasping. Our minds become so engrossed with acquiring the object of our Tanhā––money, fame, status, recognition, sex, drugs, alcohol, etc––that we lose any and all presence in our lives. We think that clinging and grasping will allow us to obtain that which we desire––and occasionally it does––but it often leads to feelings of agitation, annoyance, frustration and deep dissatisfaction.

To prevent Tanhā from ruling our lives, we first have to acknowledge the moments when we are clinging and grasping. Think about the child who throws a tantrum when they want ice cream. As soon as they get ice cream, the tantrum stops. But, only momentarily. When the child's desire for ice cream returns, they will throw another tantrum. The parent's job is to teach the child to be content despite not having that which they desire. This means allowing the child to throw a tantrum without the pacifier of ice cream.

We are all children in adult bodies who have to become better parents to ourselves. We should never reprimand ourselves for experiencing Tanhā because this will cause us to develop feelings of shame around desire (a far uglier beast to wrestle). Instead, we should sit still when we are clinging and grasping. We should see that we are clinging and grasping. We should show ourselves empathy while we're doing this clinging and grasping. But, we should have the discipline to remind ourselves that sometimes we don't get the things we cling and grasp for and that's entirely okay.

When you're creating something new, there's this gorgeous period where you get to keep your creation all to yourself. As the days pass and your creation grows wings, you have to share it with the world.

I tend to experience crippling levels of fear when it comes time to take this step because I lose control over my creation and the outside perception of my creation.

I don't have any kids. But, I'd liken the act of letting go of your art to dropping your child off for their first day of Kindergarten. As soon as they let go of your hand, you lose control. You can't protect them from drinking sour milk or being the brunt of some cruel joke or taking a tumble off the monkey bars.

While this phase of the creative process hurts like hell, you must recognize that in order for your art to become a part of the culture––and perhaps even change the culture in some small way––you have to let go.

A creative vocation is like running barefoot through a field of mud. It's a hell of a lot of fun. But, if you run for long enough, you're bound to slip and get stuck. Your natural reaction to getting stuck is to do everything you possibly can to get unstuck. Usually, this looks something akin to you fighting and struggling and panicking and attempting to move as fast you were moving prior to getting stuck.

You get unstuck from creative block the same way you get unstuck from quicksand: with small, thoughtful movements. These tiny, purposeful gestures create space for your limbs, allowing you to pull them free. Creativity functions in the same way. Small movements allow room for the creativity to open up, expand and set itself free.

Next time you're stuck, try to create something small every day for a month: draw a single sketch, take a single picture, write a single sentence, brainstorm a single idea. As the days and the weeks pass by, you will notice your creativity feeling less constrained. You will finally be able to breathe.

I have been without cold air the past few days.

My Air Conditioner is blowing air but it isn't remotely cold. Because the days here in Tennessee have crept up to the mid-eighties, the inside of my home has felt like a lion's mouth. Or, what one could imagine the inside of a lion's mouth would feel like. Hot. Muggy. Sticky. Stagnant.

Once the sun goes down for the night, I pry open my windows and allow the evening breeze to do its magic; shoveling out the heat and shoveling in the cool. I have gotten creative, too. Yesterday, I filled up a bowl with ice and pointed a box fan at the cubes in hopes the pair would distribute cold air throughout my room. It worked about as well as you'd think.

All of this inconvenience got me thinking seriously about the strange relationship between absence and appreciation. Why is it that we have to lose something to truly cherish something? Perhaps there is a way to purposefully do without what we feel is necessary from time to time so that we can appreciate what we have, while we still have it.

Furthermore, the absence of something allows room for something new. It wasn't until these past few days that I realized how good it feels to sleep with the cool night air whisking through my open window.

We must be wary of holding on too tightly to any one experience.

When we become too attached to an experience, we risk comparing a new experience to an old experience. Comparison is one of many sure paths to unhappiness. This kind of comparison of old and new, in particular, is especially dangerous for our happiness because we have a tendency to inflate and romanticize our past experiences. We imagine the ice cream being sweeter, the relationship being better, the days being warmer and the struggle being easier.

After gravity, nostalgia might just be the most powerful force in the universe. Due to nostalgia, how we remember an old experience looks more like fiction rather than reality.

This doesn't mean we shouldn't cherish each experience. We should most certainly cherish and be fully present in each experience. However, we shouldn't allow any one experience to become the gold standard for all future experiences.