*This was an introductory speech I did for Toastmasters.

Good Morning.

It took a trauma for me to start writing. I was unemployed, broke, and spiritually bankrupt. I spent my days obsessing over losing what little I had. In my vivid imagination I saw myself as the little match girl, wandering the streets of Burlington with snow falling gently on my hair. My kitties would be tucked under my arms and mewing softly. As I searched for a cardboard box in which to sleep for the night, I munched on a crust of dry bread for dinner.

Of course, these things never happened. And, you can probably see why writing came naturally to me.

In the beginning, I wrote about the fears of my everyday life. Looking for a job. Keeping myself from sinking into depression. Losing my apartment. The early columns weren’t all that well written, but they came from the heart. Through writing about loss, I discovered a source of spirit that sustained me, something which became the focus of my writing. Strangers sometimes sent cards thanking me for a message that touched their hearts.

After a while, life re balanced and there wasn’t much to write about. Having a nice apartment and a good job doesn’t encourage the kind of artistic expression that the blues does. Occasionally the muse would visit, but mostly the bills and errands and commitments of life prevailed. So, I waited, and mostly stopped writing. After all I figured, artists have eccentric souls and can only produce when inspired.

On day though, I was at work without a soul thing to do. I mean nothing. So I flexed my fingers and invited the muse for coffee and a danish. Sure enough, spirit came along and spoke through me. The process of writing itself caused the creative juices to flow. The poster by my computer reminds me of this daily; it says: “Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart all worked regular shifts each day. They did not sit down to work because they were inspired, but became inspired because they sat down to work.”

Taking the advice of the great masters, I stopped waiting for the muse to arrive. I went out searching for it. Not searching like wandering around looking for black-eyed susans in the yard, but in thinking through the meaning of everyday things – my cat Boca, Thanksgiving, or maybe an electric screwdriver. I discovered that like most things, writing has a structure. My columns usually start with a short story from my life (like the little match girl) that illustrate a philosophical or spiritual idea. A little exposition, a little contemplation, a snappy ending, and we’re all set.

The same structure is fundamental in art, the up-on-your-wall kind, whether it be the Sistine chapel wall or the graphic design that I do. Both Michelangelo and I use the structures of paper or wall, texture, and weight. Of black paint, green ink, purple, and yellow. Style, drawings, and logos. Each time I choose purple over lavender, or art deco over romantic, the work becomes more concise. A good artist is freed by these limitations, just as having laws frees us to live more fully. The unimaginative artist sinks into mediocrity.

My friend Lisa is an artist who can make something beautiful out of vegetables. One evening a few months ago, I watched her prepare a vegetable platter for an upcoming party. She surrounded a brass dish of mustardy dip with big leaves of Boston lettuce, then cherry tomatoes and bumpy cauliflower bouquets. Crinkle cut slices of dark green cucumbers and bright summer squash completed the circle. Her platters were art of the most personal and temporary sort, not something to be hung in living rooms, but a living breathing expression of spirit. The artwork itself may evaporate by virtue of being eaten, but the artistic expression transformed the physical into the spiritual.

Being round and temporary, her platters have a lot in common with Tibetan sand mandalas, like the one in the movie Seven Years In Tibet. The act of creating the mandala, knowing it might be temporary, reinforces the Buddhist message of living in the present moment. Here too, the process itself is part of the expression. Communicating with the audience may be subordinate, if not immaterial to the spiritual experience of the artist.

In a recent interview with PBS’s art evangelist Sister Wendy, she was asked her opinion of popular photographs, some of which were blasphemous. Sister Wendy said it wasn’t their controversial content that limited them, but the fact that they communicated only one message. Real art is something you can come back to time after time, and experience something new. This may not be literally true for culinary art but it is true on a higher level.

They didn’t ask Sister Wendy about her thoughts on music, but she probably would say the same thing. She might say that some country and pop songs are not art because they are so dependent on cute tag lines. In contrast, the musician Seal explains that he doesn’t print lyrics with his CD’s because he wants the songs to be experienced on a visceral level, not deconstructed into words and notes and rhythm. If you like to sing along like I do, this can be hard to accept. Fortunately, Seal’s music is sufficiently complex to warrant multiple visits. It’s not so much whether the lyrics dominate or not, as in A Cappella groups like the Persuasions, but the overall depth of the piece. In fact, lyrics are often more of a counterpoint to the instrumentals, rather than the story itself.

It’s easy to see writing or graphic design or music as art. But if we see that all of these are an expression of spirit, then we can broaden the definition to include things that are not so obviously artistic pursuits. Each time you listen mindfully to a hurting friend or drop mini marshmallows in your child’s hot cocoa, that’s art, art of the kind that is not only heard by spirit, but which is a physical manifestation of spirit itself. Each of us has gifts to bring to others, gifts that make art something more alive for everyone.