Prompt 288. The Sound of Satisfaction
& William Wordsworth on the bliss of solitude
Hi friend,
After a couple of weeks on the road, I just got home to find my garden signaling a change of season. Before I left, the flower beds were barren, but now there are daffodils, tulips, and alliums sprouting. I’m a sucker for moments when a good metaphor appears and I get to apply it to my life. Right now, it’s the arrival of spring coinciding with the beginning of my very first painting residency, where I’m making fourteen new works that will appear in my first exhibit at ArtYard, a contemporary art center, in June.
I have to admit—before I got started, I was a little nervous, for a couple of reasons. One is that I made the original paintings, which are the inspiration for these new works, while lying down (mostly in my hospital bed during my second bone marrow transplant). For my show this summer, I’m reimagining them in a much larger format. That means I have to stand to paint, which I can only do for an hour or two before I have to take a break. An additional stressor is that the materials I’m using are new to me. I’m still painting with watercolors, but rather than using watercolor paper, the canvas is wood treated with a mixture of gesso and matte varnish.
I was worried. Could I really pull this off—all these new paintings in large format in an unfamiliar medium in two months? But the other week, Elsa Mora, the artistic director of ArtYard, said the exact words I needed to hear: “Don’t be afraid. Give yourself the room to grow and expand. Be bold.”
So I’ve been channeling that energy and repeating those words almost like a mantra—and it seems to be working. I’ve given myself permission to work on an irregular schedule; to wake up at four a.m. if that’s what happens, paint until the sun comes up, nap until I’m rested, then start again. (Fortunately for me, the studio has a little bed in it!) Maybe it’s the mantra. Maybe it’s because I don’t think of myself as a painter, and therefore I feel a sense of permission to play and make space for happy accidents. Maybe it’s because I just did an interview where I talked about how, when it comes to a creative practice, perfectionism can become a prison. But whatever the reason, I’ve been letting things blossom as they will.
As an example: I was initially trying to stay true to the original paintings, trying to recreate them mark for mark. Then I realized, the originals were small only because that was what I could wrangle from bed, and since they had loomed so large and kaleidoscopic in my mind’s eye, I set out to liberate them. A couple of days into painting my large-format jellyfish seascape, I said, “Screw it. I’m going to let this be its own thing.” There’s still a significant link between the original study and the larger painting, but rather than overdetermining the image, it feels like my paintbrush is leading and I’m following. I’m tapping into some sort of intuition, conjuring images that intrigue me, that delight me, that spark my curiosity, that make me feel good on a soul level.
I haven’t been in a flow state like this in a very long time, and it feels so nourishing. I was speaking to a friend the other morning, and she said, “You sound so happy and rested.”
“I’m not rested,” I said, “but I am happy.”
“Oh, so it’s the sound of satisfaction!” she replied.
I’ve been thinking about that, trying to relish it. I feel so enlivened by this new practice, and changed by it too. I find myself photographing every flower and every sprouting bud I see, like this strange and beautiful flowering vine creeping up the side of our hotel in Los Angeles. (The internet tells me it’s called a stick pea.) Before I started painting, I may have thought, “That’s pretty,” and kept walking. But I now have to stop and take a photograph—because I want to remember it, maybe even recreate its color, its shape, its fill-my-cup vibrancy in a painting.
This brings me to the poet William Wordsworth and his daffodils. To mark the first Sunday of spring (here in the Northern Hemisphere), I’m sharing his classic poem “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.” Along with it is a prompt inspired by his idea that art comes from “emotions recollected in tranquility.” May it help you conjure a moment that filled your heart with pleasure, and may it bring you the bliss of solitude.
Sending love,
Suleika
Some items of note—
Need a mood boost? Each Friday in our Isolation Journals Chat we share a small joy from the week that we want to hold onto. I shared another full circle moment: joining my beloved onstage for his rendition of “Butterfly” at New York’s Beacon Theater. To add your small joy to the chorus—which is always beautiful, but somehow this week is especially so!—click here!
If you missed our last virtual hour for paid subscribers, we’ve posted a recap at Notes from the Hatch: Seek and You Will Find. You can read Holly’s thoughts on the power of the epistolary form and explore some writing exercises that just might bring the answer you’re seeking…
Prompt 288. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
Your prompt for the week:
In Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth writes, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”
Close your eyes and conjure something—an object, a moment, or a scene—that filled your heart with pleasure. Let it flash upon your inward eye; let it become an “emotion recollected in tranquility.” Then begin to write.
If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s prompt in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.
Today’s Contributor—
William Wordsworth was born in 1770 in the Lake District of England. With the publication of Lyrical Ballads in 1798, he and Samuel Taylor Coleridge set off the literary wave of English Romanticism, an artistic movement characterized by a reverence for nature and experiences of the sublime. In addition to drawing inspiration from the verdant landscapes of Northwest England, he was known for his interest in the life of the “common man” and for deploying common ways of speaking in his poems. A devoted practitioner of the lyric form, Wordsworth was named poet laureate of the United Kingdom in 1843, a position he held until his death in 1850.
For more paid subscriber benefits, see—
Goodbye to All That, an installment of my advice column, Dear Susu, where I write about leaving New York for the country life and big dreams
On Wonder, a video replay of my Studio Visit with the bestselling author and adventurer Jedidiah Jenkins, where we talked about shaking ourselves out of our normal ruts, the power of speaking things into existence, and his obsession with California poppies
Joy, Sorrow, & Creative Alchemy, a replay of my workshop with the brilliant Susan Cain, where we talked about the challenge of accepting life’s sorrows, how they deepen the joys, and how, if we’re open and curious, we can find a creative practice that helps us marry the two
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We were poor, only we didn’t feel that way when we were together. My daughter, then age three, and I were living in a tiny apartment above a shop on Main Street. It was all I could afford, as we two had left the comforts of our magical cottage in the woods, her father still living there. She and I still had each other, and Christmas was coming. He wouldn’t let me take any of my ornaments when we two left.
There, on the floor of our tiny apartment living room, stood the little, fake tree with lights her dad had purchased for her but no ornaments. I was appreciative of the tree, and he and I were determined that she never feel our animosity towards one another.
Still, that little tree needed ornaments. Enter, many colors of Playdoh and the cookie cutters I had purchased for $2 from the antique store right next to our building. She and I spent an entire afternoon rolling the Playdoh, cutting with the vintage cookie cutters, poking a hole at the top of each, and letting them dry.
Two days later, they became the most magical of ornaments as we hung them each lovingly with bent paperclips. Most of them have long since broken, but I still have five of them.
Each year, as I carefully unwrap each one, I am filled with the hope and possibility that she and I created that year.
Closing my eyes, a moment comes to mind from nearly 50 years ago - Having just graduated from high school, I embarked on a solo trip to Europe stopping first in Milan to stay with my father's brother and his family, whom I'd never met, only seen photographs. My uncle was meeting me at the central train station and I only had photo images of him to go on. Hordes of people coming and going. Finally as a train pulled out it revealed a tall, handsome man dressed as only Italians can, standing alone on the next over platform, seemingly looking for someone - sartorially impeccable and photoshoot ready (buttery cashmere overcoat, suit, soft leather shoes - you get the picture). Our eyes met and it was clear we recognized each other. He nearly jumped up with excitement and rather than walk all the way down the platform and around to me, because he couldn't wait that long, stepped down and through the tracks to come embrace me. Both my uncle and father are long gone but that moment will live with me forever.