If you are not exhausted by months of Covid, the upcoming US election, and the uncertainty and tumult that has visited our world, then you are among the few. What sustains you and replenishes you in this time of collective loss and uncertainty?

The answer, of course, is mostly known. But how often do we pause long enough to hear the voice inside, and the answer that is waiting? I make an effort to begin the day by reminding myself to wake up slowly, to extend the time between waking and sleeping. I just don’t let myself get out of bed with my mind racing ahead like it wants to … and there is plenty of time for screens later. There is an implosion of “newspaper truth,” which by its nature needs to be dramatic or dismal to get our attention. My only hope is to begin by extending the morning quiet. Just this morning, in the wee hours, the full blue moon got me out of bed, and outside in it. What a comfort she is in her constancy and change, unceasingly waning and waxing, departing and returning, from total darkness to lambent light. Millions and countless millions of years of gliding across the night, witnessing every kind of disaster and miracle. I feel certain we all have a moon inside — a witness, something that returns and brightens after every darkest night.

Hundreds of years ago, Leonardo da Vinci wrote in his journal on the necessity of slowing down, gazing … looking long enough at something until that something itself becomes alive. Any of you who have beheld the object you are drawing long enough know what I am talking about. Stones, apples, lamp posts and books — all things have their presences.

In his notebooks, Leonardo uses the term “chance images” to describe what he discovers in his practice of sitting still and contemplating abstract forms. He watches the changing surface of water, the pattern on an old wall, and the markings on a shell. In a pattern of lichen on a stone he sees any number of landscapes — mountains, valleys, rivers and strange figures. He explains that contemplating form can become a trigger for imagery, for the renewal of creativity. The imagination is ignited in the process of emptying, observing, and not-doing.

I love that his title for this part of his journal is “how to increase your talent and stimulate various inventions.” Notice here that “talent” is not something you have or don’t have, but something that you can increase, alongside your imagination:

Look at walls splashed with a number of stains, or stones of various mixed colors. If you have to invent some scene, you can see there resemblances to a number of landscapes, adorned with mountains…..
— Leonardo da Vinci

Preparing for my online class, I am noticing all kinds of pattern in landscape. The delight of discovering these calligraphic marks! The very next day, I came upon another box turtle, with completely different marks — her own alphabet.

It is curious to me that even Leonardo da Vinci felt awkward suggesting an approach that he feared could be dismissed as "trivial" or "ludicrous." He continues, apologetically:

Do not despise my opinion, when I remind you that it should not be hard for you to stop sometimes and look into the stains of wall, or ashes of a fire, or clouds, or mud...in which, if you consider them well, you may find marvelous ideas…
— Leonardo da Vinci

A contemplative approach to being a maker is ages old. Perhaps in an earlier time it felt more natural to sit around, appearing to be doing nothing. Surely it is the way children naturally begin, by opening up to what is ordinary and becoming absorbed by what is in front of them. As adults, in a faster world where people spend less time outside, or sitting on porches, or climbing trees — it takes some effort to stop, and then to watch and listen. Especially in the week before an election! I wonder how much group anxiety can be lessened by pausing to consider patterns and texture on bark, fabric or an old wall?

It is some consolation that even before the internet, TV, telephone, automobiles, etc., Leonardo felt the urgency to stop and allow images to rise up from his inner world.

Let what sustains you rise up.

I will end with this short poem from Galway Kinnell. It reminds me of what I reach for — wanting what is. Imagine Galway Kinnell, having this as his prayer: