Dancing for the Sublime
To create is inherently divine. To speak, write, and revel in artistic expression is to mirror the force that causes life to march forward and to cease- the same force that brings some molecules together and prevents the union of others. For some, this force is best understood in terms of God or Mother, creating a necessary binary between ’us’ and ‘them’. For others, it’s an underlying energetic current, like the Tao. Regardless of how you relate to these terms, I hope you’ll indulge my proposition that when we are moved to create something new, we are acting on an impulse that is fundamentally cosmological in nature.
While I’d love to wax philosophical about the primordial creative impulse- the surrendering of space within nothingness to create room for learning in a vacuum where the continuum of understanding had no beginning or end, I’ll cut to the part where those of the Jewish faith believe the first real act of free will unfolded. Canonically, this moment in the garden was the first moment when one could distinguish good from evil, unity from multiplicity, and wholeness from incompleteness. This fracture in consciousness is what sometimes keeps us from knowing that we are never truly separate from this Force, and it’s what allows us to experience pain and yearning for connection - Adam Two in Soleveichik’s terms, and the state of being that we exist within. Experiencing life with the awareness of what preceded the ‘fracture’ is what some wisdom traditions consider ‘enlightenment’. When I write, I want to create an equilibrium between what exists within my brain and beyond. I’m looking to dissolve, or at the very least shrink, the space between what I know to be true and what others know; I write because I want to feel less alone. I believe that this is the motivation behind all artistic expression and why an inability to do so can be so devastating for artists.
To me, the starving artist is embodied in Adam Two. As I sit in front of my computer frantically typing out this entry at a coffee shop in Santa Monica, I feel my desperation to bring these thoughts from my mind to the screen in front of me. I feel my heartbeat hastening, my eyes narrowing, and the muscles in my legs constricting. A quick glance up from my screen tells me the people around me are having similar experiences. We’re all typing our way toward completion, longing for the satisfaction of committing thought to page. Anyone who has had the privilege of doing so effectively also likely knows the excruciating pain of wanting to, but not quite knowing how, or worse, wanting to externalise ourselves, but feeling empty.
I didn’t know it at the time, but a year ago, I was on the precipice of the most profound, devastating bout of depression I experienced. I hit a roadblock in my writing career and struggled to maintain the momentum I had built around launching my podcast. My meditation and Yoga practices were suffering, and I felt lazy and frankly, stupid. I believed that lack of discipline bred disorder, so I decided to spend my summer at a Zen monastery. My days would start long before dawn and require long hours of meditation and mindful work practice. There, I reasoned, I wouldn’t have the time or space to be depressed, and I’d be forced to spend my time meaningfully. I thought that running off to the monastery was me running toward myself. I wanted to ‘uncover’ the internal light beneath my depression; I believed that with enough practice, I could rediscover my awe for life and liberate the parts of my brain that allow me to write, and ask questions and show up for the people I love.
I was wrong. I managed to complete my tasks and show up to every session, but I also contorted myself in ways that depressed people simply should not, and my mental health suffered because of it. I needed gentleness, and instead, I sought a big stick (Quite literally. During sitting periods one could ask to be struck on the shoulders by a large, flat staff. I did a lot. The symbolism is not lost on me). I privileged what I thought I wanted over what I needed, and I hope that in sharing this story, I can inspire a little more gentleness in you.
Reb Zalman taught that Hod is our natural gifts/talents/proclivities, and Netzach is what we need to work, strive, and drive for. Both of these Sephirot are required in the act of creation. Without this balance, we either find ourselves bored and uninspired or paralyzed and unable to appreciate our ideas enough to create anything at all. In hindsight, my desire for more structure was a reflection that the Divine emanation of Netzach was out of balance with Hod within my internal schema. My desire for monastic practice was driven by the erroneous belief that my lack of discipline was a moral failing and that I needed to have it driven back into my life by way of stricture, austerity, and consistency. I couldn’t see the beauty in my silence, stillness, or slowing down.
Perhaps if I had nurtured these qualities the way I nurture my curiosity or creativity, I wouldn’t have spiraled into my depression as deeply as I did last winter. And for that reason, I’d like to build on my initial statement: when we are moved to create something new, we are acting on a fundamentally cosmological impulse, but the same is true for slowing down and going inward. We cannot force ourselves to be creative, at least not productively, but beautiful things can come from allowing ourselves to slow down.
The Jewish religion appreciates the virtue of rest and silence like no other. For 25 hours a week, our people are commanded to take a break. Our creator, the ultimate creator, or reality itself in non-dual terms, came to a complete pause, and we have the ability to mirror this too.
I have found a sort of umbilical refuge in creation, but I have matured enough to appreciate rest as equally nourishing. As artists, we tend to equate our output with our self-worth. This entry is a humble reminder that the source of your ability to create wonderful, beautiful, unique things is the same source of your fatigue, your lack of inspiration, and your inwardness.
Life does not criticize itself for moving at a faster pace at some times and a slower one at others. It simply is. So I encourage you, as a creator and creative, to hold them both equally with equanimity if you can manage it. I’m working toward it, and I believe you can too. In mirroring my source, I hope to bring more love to myself and everything around me. May we all be worthy of holding loving awareness and the flexibility to change our trajectories when necessary. That is “living with music,” as Ellison writes of Jazz, and what I believe is living in art.
Move By Jonathan Billig
Please believe you have something to say.
Please believe that silence isn’t madness.
Please put my words to the test,
And then release them.
How else can we be found and lost?
“To be me is to move,”
Say exiled generations,
And then another in-breath.
No sigh can last forever.
We the children of a broken heart,
A shattered holy place beyond defiled,
Are redeeming what was once profane.
There is movement in me,
And stillness also.
