The Wild Things by Devi Nina Bingham

May I have a word with you about an important topic? Whether you agree with this statement or not, here goes: Writers are artists. Creative writing is called creative because it employs one's imagination and unconscious mind, which is what defines an artist. Now that we are on the same page, here is what I would like to say about artisans: WE ARE DIFFERENT. We think differently. Our lifestyles are different. We may even look like artists on the outside because we are representing the oddity that is on the inside. When I say odd it is not a condemnation, but a recognition that the Art Gods will exact from us one thing above all: they do not allow us to conform. Conformity is fine; it's alright and needed in many situations. The world needs structure, methods and tools. But I beg you, allow the artists, writers, painters, sculptors, dancers, actors, and any other artistic expressionist who uses any medium, allow them to be their different, strange, odd, nonconforming selves. Because it is part of the gig. We cannot think like the pack. We tried that, and it didn't work for us! It only repressed and depressed us until we burst free of the confines to say something representationally; to bring a message of wildness, or to generate uncontrollable feeling, or to simply contribute beauty or smiles to the world in an indirect way. Please do not make us be like you. For, as much as we appreciate your rules and formulas, the world also needs freedom, and the wild things-the artists. (This was one of my favorite books as a child. Now it makes so much sense why).

AN IMPOSSIBLE BEAUTY: A REFLECTION AT 60 by Devi Nina Bingham

Why do I do this to myself, celebrate my birth. Should I be proud that I am alive? What have I given humanity that will last 100 years after I am gone? And in 1,000 years nobody will remember a stitch about me, or my important books, or my academic degrees-then I will be no more consequential than a blade of grass. So why do I trouble myself to remember my birth?

Each of us are alone on a lonely planet in an endlessly expanding universe. Someday, even the Milkyway in which the earth rests will become inconsequential, not marveled at or spoken of in awe. Eventually, every living system comes to a close. A star who burnt itself out sings the loudest and shines the brightest. I am only trying to shine like that star.

But who am I shining for? Does a star shine so you may notice, or does it simply exist, and in its beingness, it shines? Do I shine so others will notice, or can I, like the animals and trees, simply be myself, unhindered so I might walk by my own light? If the sun shined for my approval and acknowledgement, I would grow lackluster about its glory. Even a glorious thing can be forgotten and left behind. It therefore shines to be its own source of warmth and light.

Why is it so difficult then to exist free of other's approval and opinions? Why do I hamper my natural glory so others can feel comfortable, or so I don't appear to be "too much" or "not enough?" Why do I depend upon someone else to make me feel happy, excited, noticed, to feel alive? Nature does not operate this way. Why then, should I?

It is because the human animal feels so deeply and suffers so greatly. The sun doesn't weep when I turn away and ignore its shine. Why then should I crumple when they have taken the party away? But more than any animal or tree could, I suffer aloneness, jealousy, abandonment; many troubling emotions beset me. Why were we given this colossal capacity to feel-a tidal wave that takes me over and dumps me out until I've drowned. Why must I feel every shade of cold, and every chill of grey?

But do animals create? I mean, do they express themselves artistically, or don't they simply live a patterned and predictable existence? The living things were given life; locomotion, thought, feeling, but so elementary in comparison. It is this: without the ability to experience disturbing and strong emotion, we could not bring forth beauty. For it is chaos that creates the rainbow. It is the artist's melancholy which forces her hand. She composes music because torrents of rivers rush through her and drive her to it. And from the pain and helplessness comes a fresh, new song. A representation of life that is wholly original and moving. The painting, the sculpture, the poem-art bursts forth and blooms from the dark void. From the wounds of pain and suffering is born an impossible beauty.

All the wrongs, mistakes, longings, and regrets add up to produce a completely original treasure. And in exchange for this inestimable grandeur, we must partake in the dark night of the soul. To delight in an opera so expansive-is it worth it? To behold the Mona Lisa's demure smile-is it worth it? To thrill with chills and ecstasy-is it worth it? Someone seems to think so, or we wouldn't be here. We would have offed ourselves a long time ago. You and I are planted here to shed every teardrop and to laugh with the angels. To make chaos, and to birth meaning from chaos. We are here not to hide from heartbreak, but to fully imbibe it so we can sing what has never been sung before.

We can hide for a time; even the sun is eclipsed. Even the moon hides half of its face. But damp your light long enough and see what will happen. The devil will creep into your bones and begin to feast on them. Your own body will turn against you until you cry out like the stones cried at Jesus' feet: "Have mercy on me!" And that song is the most powerful of them all. It calls the miracles down until they encircle you, their arms holding you fast and tight. They are the magic words that call the Shaman. And before the sun sets you will, perhaps with trembling hands, reach out for that which has been calling your name. This is the swift river of life-not to be denied, not to be controlled. Be moved by unspoken voices and let them take you. Go where your soul is leading.