Mind Like Wave
Inner landscapes, and water's perspectives
In the time between wake and sleep, in the minutes nestled and still, I close my eyes and watch the static of the cells of my eyelids. In that small space of perceptual existence, there, with the curtains of the mind closed, exists something to notice and draw from: I tune into tiny moving shapes, these cells met with hints of faint light, these eyelids and their minute hallucinatory patterns. I notice what’s moving.
These liminal resting times can be creatively generative spaces. We are slower there in the fertile moments of gently waking and lulling ourselves to sleep. These are spaces and pockets for the rhythms of writing, too; the places in the day meant for mining the gatherings of our minds, the lingering feelings, the thoughtful threads, our symbols and colors and textures from dreams. These bookend times are moments for tending — times for naming and noticing what we want to leave behind from the day, bringing to the forefront our futures and imaginings, and the tasks we need to do to care for lives, bodies, and minds.
To let go of the mind, I leave the apartment and walk to the water. I travel half asleep some mornings down the four flights of stairs listening to the creak in the doorway that needs to be oiled as it slams, turning the corner for the blast of winter cold air. I amble past the delis, the bus stops, the spin cycles of the laundromats, past coffee held steaming in white cups, smell the bakery on the corner, and cross the street, threading my life under the overhang of the train, feel the shock of the hum of the metallic thunder walking further onward to the places of sunlight and sunset, edges of sand and kayak landing and notice the birds, who tell me when I’ve arrived to the shoreline.
Like writing, this walk to the water is a process of tracing the contours of memories — griefs and despairs and delights and all of it — imagining the future, turning toward large and small tasks at hand as I ground down into the day. I could watch the waves for hours, the ripples of dark navy of the East River, the flow of the rivers winding through the parks, the endless waves making way to sand along the Atlantic.
I like to imagine that the waves of these waters are visualizations of our minds. That the waves of water are rhythms of memory, thought, and wonder, constantly undulating, how I couldn’t stop the waves even if I tried. I learn to be witness to this constancy, standing there at the horizon. I surrender to the nature of the mind. With writing and walking, we learn to ground, to be, and then to flow with.
Writing is the ground I turn to to hold the thinking thoughts. I notice the waves of sensation, this embodiment of existing, this human experience; I watch it all come and go. Writing is a place I go to be with life. It’s an imaginative space, a generous practice, a present space, a generative tool. It’s the container I turn to to exist within, to notice, to celebrate, to grieve, to be bored in, make note of, to imagine potentials, to generate delicious ideas and thoughts, to witness my life being lived. Writing helps me remember, and shows me what I want to forget. I write it all down. Along the shorelines of life are the depths of experiences, ideas, and longings. I meet pen, ink, and the surface of the page, and together we travel and ground down, gathering thoughts and insights, witnessing and feeling emotions and threads of the psyche, the waves of life, together as creative companions.
Thoughts and emotions are materials. These experiences of the mind get stuck, dense, heavy. They form and reform in lighter shapes, in slower or faster moving waves. To get unstuck, we move; Walking is the thing that shifts the thoughts through. I take step after step, repeating across days and streets. Each time something shakes loose, and what I’m left with is a greater sense of organization: an embodied ease, a quieter mind, and usually an increase in understanding. “What’s the story? What’s here?” are two questions usually gets worked out around mile one or two. Then, the stitches and connections to memory, history, and latent associations usually arises later on in my travels arrive by mile three.
I like walking because it’s slower, it slows my mind. I’m not concerned with speed, and so I leave no thought behind. By the end, walking back up the tiled steps, heart paced faster and body pulsing with quiet strength, I feel more whole again, more put together, mind like a river made clear, ready for writing and creating.
This morning, I am river, I am wave, I am wind on a pond, flowing from one feeling to the next. Some days we are trickles, rainfalls, oceans, or the basins of a still lake. Some days our collective thoughts are drops brought together in a wide ocean. In our inner worlds, we teem with possibilities. We flow into what we’re connected with, generating momentum in the process. These practices give us the space to dive in, to float around, to swim within, spaces that inspire generatively and ways to meet ourselves like a wave lapping at the shoreline: again, again, again.
what are you meeting? returning to?
what are you flowing with?
upcoming experiences:
2/21 Ink/Play new!
2/21 Suminagashi 2: Meditating on the Landscape new!
2/25 Bookbinding: Casing In Hardcovers
3/3 Suminagashi Basics
3/10 Bookbinding: Pamphlet Stitch
3/14 Grounded in Gratitude
3/20 Taste + Write: Meditating on the Senses
nourished by, nourishing:
Reading: Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke on the train. Video: How to Start a Practice. Watching: Amelie on the big screen. The ocean at Fort Tilden. Snowfall. Falafel, perfectly cooked and hot on the cold sidewalk. Clementines. Lemon balm, holy basil, mimosa, St. John’s wort, for winter mind things. Chocolate, citrus, always, coffee, chocolate again.
I’ll be making some changes to the subscriber-only features of this letter in the weeks to come: meaning, more. Stay tuned, and share your reflections on your own creative process below.
Creative Nourishment is a reader-supported publication by Kelly Odette Laughlin. I’m an artist, writer, and teacher located in NYC, and the founder of Odette Press. I lead creative workshops throughout the city and beyond — let’s work together. Learn more about my work here, shop journals here, and reply to connect.