Walking my chihuahua-pomeranian, Bella, this morning, trying to be mindful and appreciate the moment, the few days we get of curling Autumn breezes here before it just gets cold, thinking about what a practice is.
I like Sophie Cullinan’s idea that it’s something like a Buddhist practice, in that you keep going back to basics, to the Zen beginner’s mind. That reminds me of one of my favourite books, Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. Goldberg’s thing is that whatever you decide to make your practice–writing, drawing, running, Zazen sitting, dancing, cooking, even business–the effects of that intention and that habit permeate through the rest of life and who you are, prompting deep questioning, joy, change, growth… all those personal development terms that I’m equally attracted to and suspicious of.
I think this translates to the way we typically use ‘practice’ in artspeak, in that we’re referring to a constellation of behaviours, thought patterns and relationships–not just the maknig process or its product–resulting from our decision to nurture a specific habit and specific artistic identity.
What I wrote the other day about a practice as enacting a unifying desire when life is so fragmented still feels right. Things so often don’t make sense and getting through the day is frequently a lot of work. So perhaps having something that you can always refer back to is grounding in the way that a good, loving family is grounding.
Not sure what kind of practice I may already have, or would like to develop. But I feel like learning to be ok with ambiguity, with everything being fragmentary, is as important as making practic-al sense.
