Each morning after meditation when I head down to my studio, there is a process of re-orientation. I used to think that after I had been painting this long I would walk into my studio and know what to do. This hasn’t happened yet. So I begin with my opening ritual — a way of re-orienting a mind in chaos. I take a glass from the altar and fill it with clear water. I light incense and ring a bell. Above the altar I have pictures of my guides, friends and family. I express my gratitude. An old greeting card is also posted on the wall, with a child’s drawing of a train climbing up a hill with the caption yes you can, yes you can, yes you can.

My drawing table is piled with books, water, coffee, paint, ink, palettes, sketchbooks and notebooks; pens, pencils and brushes. At the moment there is a stack of books I return to: Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, Fire to Fire by Mark Doty, Literature and the Gods by Roberto Calasso, Consolations by David Whyte, and The Bedside Book of Birds by Graeme Gibson. First, I must clear the space on my table. In the process, I discover this passage in my journal:

Grace is this yellow moon resting
on my empty notebook, a halo
of light casting the first word.

Reminding me that just the other night when I reached for the dream journal I keep by my bed, the moon had already written on the page. The liminal space between waking and sleeping is a rich time for ideas. Omens are everywhere when you look. But, yes, back to re-orientation. A loving reverent resolve is required.

Here is a good way to begin if you don’t already know where to start: Pick a poem and write it out in your own handwriting, into your journal. Here is the one I picked today:

Don’t you wish they would stop, all the thoughts
swirling around in your head, bees in a hive, dancers
tapping their way across the stage. I should rake the leaves
in the carport, buy Christmas lights. Was there really life on Mars?
What will I cook for dinner? I walk up the driveway,
put out the garbage bins. I should stop using plastic bags,
visit my friend whose husband just left her for the Swedish nanny.
I wish I hadn’t said Patrick’s painting looked “ominous.”
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called. Does the car need oil, again?
There’s a hole in the ozone the size of Texas, and everything
seems to be speeding up. Come, let’s stand by the window
and look out at the light on the field. Let’s watch how the clouds
cover the sun, and almost nothing
stirs in the grass.
— “Thinking” by Danusha Laméris

Once I began doing this exercise, I realized that my thoughts had quit “swirling around in my head”, and I was just writing the poem. After you have written the poem several times, take a line and write a response. Keep writing. I played with writing it in different ways. Below is an example of writing the poem in tiny writing, several times, in different directions:

Writing the poem several times, in different directions, very small. L Doctor pocket sketchbook

Come, let’s stand by the window and look out

I went and stood by the window. The half moon a gold glitter between the branches. The sound of the water over stone, cicadas, crickets and the persistent Carolina wren.

When my uninterrupted time in my studio is done, I empty the glass of clear water and ring the bell.

Each of you have your own way of beginning, of re-orienting yourself with a generous confidence in the intentions of this world for you.

What rituals do you have for re-oreintation? I’d love to hear from you.