Divine Alignment
The first act of initiating an art experience, before making a single mark, is the creation of an intention to guide our work. We take a few moments to become quiet and go within to create a space that will ignite the spark of imagination. We must make room, clear out whatever distracts us to discover our intention. We may meditate, focus on our breathing, or free write until an intention takes shape. We may arrive knowing what we seek. More often we arrive with worries and tasks to do later clinging to our consciousness like so many Post-It notes.
Write the intention down in a journal or a notebook in the form of a present tense, straightforward statement, without using the verb want. To “want” is to remain forever lacking, preventing the Creative Source from catching up with what is underneath the lack. Make the intention as clear and concrete as possible, addressed to a force of great compassion that intends what is best for you, as if it were a prayer that has already been answered. When beginning this practice you are more likely to see the effect with a concrete intention that has some built-in limits. For example, you might ask for guidance about whether you should accept an invitation to some event or decline it and use the time for rest and quiet rather than just saying, “I am open to whatever comes.” You are working toward the overriding intention of being in alignment with the divine intention; but to begin, keep it simple, recognizable.
Intention is always a co-creative process. It is not as if there is a Divine Puzzle Maker who “knows what is best for us” but withholds the information and makes us guess at it. Who co-creates? If we reflect even briefly, we recognize that every interaction we engage in has its own distinct energy. When two people are in a conversation, each of them contributes to its shape. I will discuss this further in chapter 3, which reflects on the edges of knowledge and the challenges inherent in art as a spiritual path.
Intentions that ask for change must be for oneself, not for another person; and they cannot violate any natural laws. It is fine to ask for guidance about how best to deal with a difficult person, but not correct to have an intention for that person to see that you are right about some disagreement. We turn over the outcome and the details of how it manifests to the Creative Source. As we gradually become conscious of the power of intention and the limits of our individual understanding, it becomes easier to let go of specific outcomes and open to a greater reality. Common beginning intentions in the studio include “to enjoy myself,” “to let myself explore my creativity,” “to receive guidance about a personal decision or health concern,” “to make an image of my sorrow,” and “to open to the creative source.” As artists begin to create images, intentions also grow out of the relationship of the artist to the image as a teacher. The acceptance of the image as teacher often takes a long time. For many of us, especially those trained in art, the image is a thing we make; imagining it to have a life of its own or seeing it as an expression of a consciousness beyond our thinking mind can be a challenge. Shaun McNiff says, “If we imagine paintings as a host of guides, messengers, guardians, friends, helpers, protectors, familiars, shamans, intermediaries, visitors, agents, emanations, epiphanies, influences and other psychic functionaries, we have stepped outside of the frame of positive science and into the archetypal mainstream of poetic and visionary contemplation” (1992, 74).
The word intend derives from a Latin root, tendere; in-tendere means to stretch toward (Ayto 1990, 302). One way to think about intention is to ask yourself what you are willing to stretch toward. What are you yearning for? What is asking to be born through you? And can you imagine that a force of great compassion is also stretching toward you, with information that both you and the world need? What do you wish to be near—peace, wisdom, harmony, compassion, purpose, community, justice, truth? Although intention seems like a very simple idea, it is a practice; one must use it to reap its rewards. For example, in my first book I suggest some sample intentions (Allen 1995, 197) such as, “I want to know the meaning of this image.” One day while reading a book whose title I forget, I came across the idea that to use the word want when forming an intention creates a state of lack. The words “I want” are a statement to the universe of an existential reality of lack or scarcity. What follows those words is received as so much static because wanting is a reality of not-having. I wish I could recall the book or even the subject in order to thank the author, whose words seared me and shifted my perception. I can only confirm over and over that these ideas belong to all of us and to no one in particular. They arise from a collective knowing that is the birthright of every person. How they are expressed will vary according to the circumstances, special gifts, and limitations of each person who chooses to express them.
After the insight about “want” I began to listen more closely as others read their intentions. I began to notice that many of us are in a state of chronic want that has to do with our forgetting. We forget what we asked for yesterday; we ask for something that contradicts that request; we forget to notice what we have; we forget to express gratitude. It comes as a surprise to many of us that the surest way out of want, which is a perception, is to make an inventory of what we have and then find something to give thanks for or, even more powerful, to give something away. Often there are things filling our lives and the spaces of our minds that prevent what we “want” from arriving. Sometimes the best intention is simply to make space to notice what is before trying for something new. In that space, our attention catches on something and the imagination is sparked. The spark is our intention, ignited by the attention we give it through making art. Our intention can be to see what we are holding on to that is filling our space. A refrigerator with old, spoiling food that doesn’t nourish can’t be replenished until it is emptied of moldy items crowding the shelves. New relationships, work, or life purpose will not manifest with clarity if we do not make space by acknowledging and letting go of some of our busyness and doing of what is no longer working. The architects of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa at the end of apartheid in 1994 had a clear intention to let go of fixed ideas when they stated in the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act of 1995 the need for “understanding, not vengeance, reparation, not retaliation, ubuntu (humanness), not victimization” (TRC 1995). The TRC created the space necessary for new ideas to arise in the face of historical atrocity.
I believe that the Creative Source intends for each of us to manifest fully and joyfully. I also believe in the relational aspect of the Divine. I must ask in order to receive; I must come to the realization that my will is not the only factor in determining what will manifest but neither can it be completely superseded by divine intervention. It is part of the practice of intention to discern what we are really asking for and then to let go of worrying exactly what the result will look like. It is important to review our intentions on a regular basis to notice contradictions in our requests. Wording and language is important in crafting intention. Once, in the early days of Open Studio Project, discussing the notable absence of men signing up for workshops and our belief that men “needed” to be there, we decided to make a formal intention for more men to come to the studio. In the following weeks we were treated to random visits from several men. One offered to sell us art supplies that had “fallen off a truck.” There was an earnest young artist who, unbidden, plopped himself down with slides of his art and recited his life story. And several city workers, taking a break from repairing the sewers, came in to ask if they could use our restrooms. The Divine has a great sense of humor but didn’t fail to manifest our vaguely worded intention. The statement of intention crafted by the TRC allowed for a new cultural form to emerge that has been adopted in many other countries. While not perfect, it has opened the way for us to see that violence need not beget violence, if that is truly not our intention.
As with any practice that seems simple, it is easy not to give intention its due. Today I was running late and feeling impatient to get to the studio and write. I hurried through the rituals I have created over the years to foster mindfulness—including writing an intention. I had written something down, slapdash, but couldn’t even remember the words. “Hmm,” I thought, “I better go back and see what I wrote.” My journal reveals the result of my hurry: “I do some writing, I do some art.” After this terse summary, I had tacked on a reminder of what I needed to bring home at the end of the day. “Some writing” can be a grocery list or phone messages. If I am serious about working on this book, I will revise that intention. I write: “I align myself with the Creative Source as I receive refinements of the book I am writing.” Better, but the new intention makes me stop and wonder, “What is necessary for that alignment to take place? Is it just an act of my will?” Well, if I’m really distracted by those tasks, I better figure that out. I get up and collect the items I need and put them in my bag to bring home later. Now am I aligned? I sit in my chair and notice my feet on the floor, grounding me. My body must be aligned. I offer a silent prayer to plug into earth energy and invite it to come up through my feet so that what I write is practical and useful to others. I feel the energy begin to surge upward, and I become aware of my heart: “May my words be openhearted so that they convey the joy that I feel when I am in alignment with the Creative Source, and may I be given the words to extend that joy to others. The heart of the world desires to touch your heart.” Suddenly my mind says: “Whoa! How could you have forgotten to remind everyone that checking in with body, heart, and mind is part of the practice of intention?” May these words be simple enough, the thoughts clear enough, so that it makes sense to other people to take the time to line up body, heart, and mind, which is how we make way for spirit.
Body, heart, and mind are like a series of doors that the soul knocks on in different ways. If I get too caught up in thinking, I might trip or bump into something or develop a sore throat; so I can’t broadcast my overheated ideas without being reminded that the body has some wisdom to contribute to ground the flight of my ideas. When I write when I am really tired and should be sleeping, a crabby self-righteousness can creep into my words. When I become enamored of a metaphor or story and try to force it into the text, the writing gets like over-yeasted bread, too full of hot air to nourish. When I haven’t resolved a dispute with a friend, I find myself writing to instruct her, rather than listening to the flow. All of these things are my lessons. I take them into my art. I ask for guidance about working when I am tired, and sometimes I get the message that I need to take a nap. Sometimes I learn that I can work very small and accomplish what is needed. I make an image to learn the way to resolve my dispute with my friend. All of these subtle alignments are aligning me with the Source, which is in and of me, in and of my friend, in and of us all.
My daily intention is to be open to my learning about how to serve the Soul of the World with joy and to be an instrument of peace. Even so, I forget this intention at least a hundred times a day. Rereading my notebooks, I am constantly amazed at how fleeting mindfulness is. Taking an action to remind us of intention can really help. My friend Jackie gave me a bottle of essential oil called Joy once after she heard me read my intention to serve with joy. It is in a tiny brown bottle with a pink label. I place a drop behind my ears and on my wrist, when I remember to, and the scent helps me. Wearing a certain piece of jewelry or color of clothing can be an act of remembrance supporting our intention. Often when writing I wear a cloisonné amulet, a gift from my friend and colleague Janis Timm-Bottos, with an image of a woman writing on each side. It stays empty to signify my intention to have the words I write supplied by the Creative Source. When I especially intend to keep my daughter in my heart and mind, I wear a silver ring inscribed with the Hebrew name, Adina, that she and I share. We all have many, many “good intentions” that never manifest because we do not pay attention to them. Yet we can cultivate a space for intention to blossom by paying attention with mindful gestures that support our connection with the Creative Source. Mindfulness requires space. We must come to a stopping place to notice exactly what will support our intention. When our gestures of homage become rote, they begin to lose efficacy. There is no power in a charm or an idol; the power arises only from our directed attention, of which the charm is a sign to remind us. Without careful cultivation of attention, the Source cannot send us what we need.
Important insights can occur anywhere and anytime. Ideally, intention should permeate our lives. Each morning, before getting out of bed, I try to remember to recite the Modeh Ani, a Hebrew blessing in which I thank the Divine for the return of my soul, which has been journeying on my behalf in the dreamtime while I slept. Otherwise, I just say thank you for whatever I see or feel first—usually the simple fact of being in a body. My intention is gratitude. One morning, I become aware that I have taken on too many responsibilities for others. I have not set the limits and boundaries I need to accomplish my own creative work.
I am walking the dog in the early morning darkness. She sniffs an object; I bend down and pick it up. It is a battered little plaster burro from a Christmas nativity scene. I laugh at the beleaguered little work animal and my mind takes off to the manger scene under the Christmas trees of childhood (figure 1). Would the Divine Child have survived if the donkey and ox hadn’t been breathing their warm breath over him instead of out plowing a field or hauling wood? I take the figure to the studio as a reminder to stay focused on my work even when others want to drag me off to plow their field. I acknowledge how much easier it is sometimes for me to respond to a request from someone else than to face the rigor of my own creative work. When I am away from my art and writing, a sort of callus grows over my heart. At these times, my life becomes a sort of dutiful martyrdom that leaves me feeling resentful toward others for keeping me from my work. I often imagine that I must get all chores and obligations out of the way before I sit down to make art. When I remember to make an intention to connect with the Creative Source and also fulfill my obligations, time expands. I engage in artmaking from a place of dedication to the Creative Source, and duty becomes joyfully rendered. The paradox of how that happens is the work of the Creative Source, not my rational planning. The Creative Source doesn’t issue ultimatums for us to neglect whatever is true service in our lives, but does challenge us to get all our parts into perspective.
Figure 1. Plaster burro. Found object.
When I am the facilitator of the studio, I make an intention to do no harm, to receive no harm, and to be a worthy conduit for what needs to come into the group. If I am rushing in without a moment to spare because I decided to do three errands on the way to the studio, it takes longer for me to re-center and become present. Yet that is not my only task. In every studio experience, I also make a personal intention based on my life at the moment. I am not present solely for others, but also for myself. So, as I create an art piece for my daughter, I may have an intention to be present to my feelings about her going off to college. At the same time, I trust that my intention to be present to the group will also manifest. After years of teaching this process to my students at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, I found myself becoming bored. The image came to me that I had lost traction; I was spinning my wheels in the same ruts but not moving forward. Students continued to tell me how much they got from the class, but it was becoming a chore to me. It isn’t enough to have the intention to share the process with my students; I also have to have a personal stake in being there if the Creative Source is going to keep showing up for me.
Sharing examples from the past is useless unless I learn something new. I made the intention to discover what more, if anything, was there for me in teaching this method, or whether it was time to stop teaching the class and move on. I realized how many projects I had begun in my studio work and had not shared with the students. I had grown to rely on presentations of my past work that I had already put together and had resisted creating new ones. Then I realized that until I fully shared the new work, it was in fact not complete. I required other voices to respond, to witness what I had done, before I could truly know it (Watkins 1999). I gained awareness of how many unfinished projects I had in my life and in the studio, promising efforts that I had allowed to wither and die because of lack of time or the intrusion of other obligations. Each of these projects holds a certain amount of energy, a lingering charge. Our creative field can become like a computer with too many programs running in the background and not enough “memory” to accomplish any new work at hand. I made it my intention to inventory and clear out projects and let them go if they had no life. I prepared new presentations based on the responses I received in sharing the work. This helped me celebrate and come to closure with major projects. New energy flooded back for me when I shared work around a ritual I designed for my fiftieth birthday. I remembered the excitement of sharing work that is on my edge. I felt confirmed in my efforts when one student asked for some readings about women’s rituals to share with her mother, who was facing a major birthday in the coming year.
Intention is how we join with the Divine and how we access our internal wisdom. It is how we ground and center ourselves and prepare ourselves to receive the image, which is the medium through which the Divine communicates with us. It is how we remind ourselves that “I” am not doing anything; I am serving a higher force. Intention is an exchange of energy. We put our physical, mental, and emotional energy at the disposal of the Universe. We open ourselves to the energy of the Universe but in a focused way. Once the intention is written down, it is best to forget all about it during the artmaking process. There is no need to try to hold the intention in mind while creating artwork; in fact it can interfere by preventing you from following the image. You will check in again with the intention when you write your witness.
At the last session of a six-week basic practice group at Open Studio some years ago, I forgot to write an intention down before I began. The final session is always used for review. Instead, after rereading the work of the previous weeks, I began with a quote from a past witness writing. Immediately, a small sculpture of an old wise woman guide called Maud (figure 2), one of the images I had been working on in that session, began to speak, and I got some very intense information. She began: People can feel violated by insights if they are unready to receive them. . .
Maud went on to tell a long story of Saul of Tarsus and his conversion experience and all the contradictions in it:
MAUD: Saul was knocked from his horse by a flash of light, he experienced a conversion. From being a persecutor of the clandestine followers of Jesus he switched and founded institutional creativity [I meant to write “Christianity”], as we know it. He represents the externalizing of insight; we “honor” him and don’t question his finding an external solution to what originated as an internal challenge. But that manner of response is no longer applicable, sustainable. As a Jew, Saul must have known, felt, some of the institutional atrophy of Judaism within the Temple system of the day. What if he had taken the path inward to find his own atrophy and renewal? Would Christianity have spawned pogroms, the inquisition, the crusades, the witch burnings in the name of Jesus who spoke of—Get this, LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF and LOVE GOD, which I understand to mean Love Godness, wholeness, God includes all, there is nothing that is not God. There is no division, no separation, yet all uniqueness is honored. Old age and youth are not valued differently, male and female, rich and poor, allness. Justice is love and the opposite of love, as it has been said, isn’t hate, it is indifference. But indifference leads to, breeds hate, revenge, attack. If contact is denied overtly, it will happen in indirect ways. Union will happen. How ironic that in the war between Serbians and Croatians that rape is so often a weapon of war. The enemies believe that they are destroying the ethnic purity of their enemies by forcibly implanting their seed in the women and girls. What better image of self-hate? I put myself in you, against your will, as if I, myself, am poison. But also, what more awful, poignant fact—I must connect, even in this degraded, brutal way.
Figure 2. Maud, by Pat B. Allen. Plaster gauze, mixed media.
ME: I feel a chill, it seems you are saying that the universe will accomplish the union of opposites at any cost, it seems heartless and cruel.
MAUD: Mother Kali has but one oneness, the continual manifestation of truth. The truth can be brutal and here it has hidden sweetness. Those who become mothers through rape are asked to do a vicious service, but they will also love the infants who issue blamelessly from such infernal unions, some of them will love these babies who are the manifestation of truth. The free will of humans does not allow you to violate truth, only to make it a painful struggle, and endless suffering.
ME: So back to Saul/Paul?
MAUD: It’s evolutionary but clearly humans will not survive without reacquainting themselves with truth and giving up their silly notions of exclusivity. Kali doesn’t negotiate; honor Her and the unfolding is wondrous because you can perceive truth without fear.
ME: Why is all this coming to me today?
MAUD: You didn’t begin with an intention and so I took my opening to define the territory according to what I need to say.
ME: I can limit you with my intention?
MAUD: Of course, but be aware that alignment with the intention of the universe will occur, with or without your cooperation. It’s like this—your free will doesn’t cover certain things, like if you jump off a building, which you are free to do, you cannot will yourself to fly. Once you exercise the will to jump, the laws of truth apply and you go splat!
As always, the job is to practice discernment or, as the Buddhists say, “discriminating awareness.” Consider that the building you jump off is internal and not the World Trade Center.
ME: Look, I miss making art.
MAUD: Next time include that in your intention, you can stop me at any time.
This witness writing occurred about five years before the events of September 11, 2001. The witness speaks clearly about distinguishing what is actual from what is symbolic. What if the intention of the Soul of the World is to manifest Its oneness now, after many centuries of manifesting differentiation and the separations that requires? And what if we, individually and collectively, are Its means to realize this intention? And what if we are not in alignment, are not cultivating the intention to manifest the highest good for all humankind? What if those of us with the clearest intention, paying the most attention, can only see as far as maximizing corporate profit? What if another group can only see as far as making the world into the image of their religious beliefs and sees their proselytizing as a gift, not an intrusion on freedom of belief? Our intention guides how we manifest our thoughts, beliefs, and desires. I often wonder how mindful we are as Americans of exporting our culture and ideas around the world. The destruction of the World Trade Center towers made us aware that there are cultures in the world that do not share our beliefs. What if we make the intention to turn inward to create oneness, each of us, one unique being at a time, instead of creating a global monoculture? Is it possible that the manifestation of McDonald’s restaurants everywhere is a misguided kind of temporal oneness? In other words, there are forms, ideas, truths that will manifest, no matter what. Our work is to cultivate sufficient imagination that what manifests will be artful and not horrendous. This is a particular strength of art as a spiritual path: it gives us a means to cultivate imagination as a tool of discernment in the process of reality manifesting.
Although intention is a tool I usually think of as focusing awareness, it also has the function of creating boundaries, something I had neglected to do in the session described above. In its boundary-creating capacity, intention limits and helps give shape to what we receive. Once in an ongoing class where many artists frequently engaged in dialogue with their images, there was one woman who was an accomplished watercolorist. After the first few weeks, she began to bring her own materials rather than use the more humble tempera paints and tape and foil the rest of us were using. She came with her Arches watercolor paper stretched on a board and her own brushes and paints. She worked in the style that had earned her prizes in local watercolor exhibits. She often lamented in her witness writing that her paintings never spoke to her the way others spoke to their artists. Yet she never asked her work to speak and never made an intention to speak to her image. The Creative Source respects our limitations. Had this artist continued in the process, she might have become aware that she “had no intention” of changing her methods or her relationship to creating, no intention to speak to or listen to her images. Students have often asked me why I didn’t point out to her that she hadn’t invited her work to speak. I only know I asked that question internally and heard guidance to not meddle in her process. It is not our job to foist our insights on others, but rather to be fully ourselves in each moment.
Each of us is a conduit for truth; but how much we receive, and whether or not we can put the truth we know to use, depends partly on how well we modulate what we receive. The Surrealist artists of the early twentieth century made a game of tapping into the universal stream of information through automatic writing and spontaneous drawing techniques like the “exquisite corpse” (Martin 1999). This practice began as a game where a phrase was written on a piece of paper that was then folded over to conceal the writing. Next it was passed to another person who wrote another phrase, folded the paper, and so on. The final amalgam was read as a “poetic fragment” of the group mind. The name comes from an early attempt at this exercise: “Le cadaver exquis boira le vin nouveau” or “The exquisite corpse will drink the young wine.” The game was later adapted for drawing as well. Overwhelmed by the powerful images and energy brought forth by these games, a number of people experimenting with them became disoriented and emotionally destabilized. In the studio, being in the presence of others engaged in similar work provides a form of grounding that makes each of us more capable of receiving and expressing images that might overwhelm us individually.
When working together with others, the intention to do no harm is crucial. It prevents us from making thoughtless remarks and helps to raise difficult feelings like envy or competition to the surface. What would the world look like if corporate CEOs shifted their intention from maximizing profits to doing the greatest good for all while doing no harm? I suspect we would have fewer costly and unhappy ecological disasters—not as a magical outcome, but because consciousness expands with clear intention into how to make that a reality. Without clear intention our insights are like brief wildfires extinguished by flash floods; they appear then vanish without lasting effect. The place from which the information comes contains all things; many of us receive information that needs to come into the world but do not necessarily have the grounding to bring the information in safely. The community of the studio, where there is no risk of judgment, is an ideal place to receive the wisdom that awaits us and to gain support for manifesting that wisdom in form. The “forgetting” that I often observe in rereading old witnesses may have the function of protecting us from knowing too much at once.
Sometime the image takes the lead and challenges me about my overall intention. This was the witness to the Narrow Drawing:
IMAGE: How much life force energy are you willing to have pass through you?
ME: I “want” to say “a lot.” I say a lot—I let a lot of life force energy pass through me. I will be a pathway for life force energy. As I say that to myself I feel my face change to an eagle, then a fox, then a jaguar, then talons spring from out of my fingers I have a sharp, curved beak . . . then I am covered in sleek black fur, stalking my prey I am a panther I feel a growl in my throat. Then I stop my kaleidoscope vision. I feel a trap door close at the level of my heart.
I say “a little,” I’ll take a little energy and I feel my throat constrict my breathing feels labored. A trickle of energy is flowing through me I feel smaller, my shoulders stoop and round, gravity pulls the flesh of my face downward, I feel my bones drying and shrinking no words come from my throat, I’m dying.
What does this mean?
IMAGE: You asked whether or not to get involved. Life is involvement, death is disengagement. Work to open more to life until you are one with whatever you do as you do it, like when you are drawing.
ME: You seem narrow to me now, at different times you felt more open. I chose a narrow piece of paper to feel boundaries.
IMAGE: You are always held by invisible bounds unless you work to destroy them, you are always utterly safe in the life force; widen the path as you feel comfortable.
ME: What about fear?
IMAGE: Fear is a speed bump stay with it and honor it and it will dissolve.
There is a sense of power and sacredness in allowing our inner voices to speak aloud and receive witness. The language of parable, story, and metaphor, which for most people arrives only in dreams if at all, begins to feel more natural in our waking state. It is important to use intention as a means to ground ourselves in our daily life. I believe this practice allows us to listen to what is below the words spoken in ordinary discourse for the soul and heart meaning. There is a multiplicity of voices within each of us. Mary Watkins (1999, 2), referencing a phrase coined by Sampson, calls this the “‘ensembled self,’ aware of multiplicity on all levels.” Over time we become less judgmental of others and otherness in ourselves, and are able to hear the image on a soul level when it speaks, which allows us to respond with compassion and gratitude. Artmaking is the vehicle by which we enter the place of all possibility. Intention determines what we manifest when we return from that place.
I often wonder how our foreign policy would change if the tool of intention were used in policy planning sessions. How about urban development or the affordable housing crisis? What if we made the intention to house every citizen in a way that would most support both body and soul unfolding? I spent time in Cuba recently and saw the effect of intentionality on urban planning in Havana. To determine the effect of a new building on the environment, surrounding buildings, and population, a maqueta, or scale model of the city, is carefully consulted before any new construction is begun. Cuba began to enter world markets following the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. Losing its only trading partner opened the way for both chaos and opportunity in Cuba. By mindfully entering into joint ventures with foreign investors, the Cuban government is struggling to deal with the paradox of legalizing the dollar and trying to maintain the values of socialism for its citizens. There is a clearly stated intention to preserve the dignity and rights of workers as a cornerstone of the ongoing Cuban revolution. What if Cuban and American artists were invited to envision together an even larger shift, one in which the greater good of all concerned was the guiding intention? What new forms of commerce might emerge that could aid developing nations and even our own sagging model of capitalism? Cuba, like South Africa, has resisted the demands of globalization in planning a smaller, sustainable, and just economy.
Imagine mindfulness guiding our interventions in nature. Imagine if our elected officials saw themselves as serving the Creative Source, whose compassion knows no bounds and observes no national boundaries. What if the imagination was considered our primary resource and was nurtured as such? What if artists were engaged through intention to serve as advisors to those in positions of power? Oracles had their place in the ancient world in just such a function. What would the world look like if power were exercised by those with alignment of body, mind, and heart? What is our intention, as individuals, as citizens, as creatures of the world? To go beyond our superficial answers and our despair, to touch our inner truth, we engage in artmaking, which takes us to the realm of all possibilities and revives in us the ability to imagine.