Walking distance
Worry constricts. Kyo Maclear makes this point in her book Birds Art Life, a delightful meditation on creativity. We know this, that a mind narrows from stress. Incoming threats don’t ask, they demand the whole of our defenses, a Darwinian fight-or-flight advantage that purposefully limits our mind’s ability to wander. Threats need not be physical, either; when our sense of self is challenged, our ego responds in much the same way.
These days, stress is our shared reality, so universal that we often perceive it as a normal state. We’re overstimulated by technology, the elusive gains in efficiency countered tenfold by incessant distractions. We struggle in common with finances, children, relationships, workloads, health concerns. These are challenges to our sense of self, and our ego responds no differently than if there were a bear entering our cave.
While we’re learning that moderate levels of stress can be good for you, stress is a little like wine; I’ll bet that most of us overindulge. And like wine, too much stress can cause headaches, fatigue, insomnia. We become easily frustrated, moody, tense. Our judgement clouds, our senses dull.
A stress-narrowed mind is an incurious mind, unable to roam freely. Yet creativity needs this freedom; it wants space to frolic, to welcome the muse on her terms. Given that stress-free living is beyond our reach, how do we free this space?
Some succeed through meditation, able to replace the “stress response” with the “rest response,” tamping down the ego’s always-on agenda. It’s a way of distancing ego from consciousness, of uncovering space. Maybe you can notice a gap between your thoughts, the time after one ends and before the next begins. This is the space that meditation seeks to expand, allowing greater distance one thought from the next.
There are many ways to meditate; I’m not good at any of them. I can, however, find space through physical and visual distance. When I walk through San Francisco’s forested Presidio, I’m suddenly distant from my nearby city life. My stress recedes. Gazing skyward through tall eucalyptus trees, the filtered sunlight reminds me of my smallness. Looking out from Immigrant Point at the endless expanse of the Pacific, waves of insignificance overwhelm my ego. That’s space.
As a reward, I get a boost in creativity. I realize this is not news to many; I’m simply marveling at an ongoing personal discovery that others have already found, often more easily, perhaps with more intensity. In fact, the value of distance has seeped into our popular culture. Common problem-solving advice often starts with taking a step back. Got writer’s block? Go for a walk. Want to be more productive at work? Try walking meetings, offsite meetings, retreats. Even Southwest Airlines asks “Wanna get away?”
A few years ago, I started writing poetry sitting amidst the green peace of the Presidio, soon filling a notebook I called “15-minute poetry.” It didn’t matter that the poems weren’t very good; they were creative. Half-formed thoughts, unexplored feelings, memories on the verge of oblivion made themselves appear on the pages, often with surprising clarity, loosed through the widening gaps between my thoughts.
But again, I’m not alone.
Shinrin-yoku, the Japanese nature therapy of forest bathing, has been proven to reduce stress, lowering blood pressure and improving sleep. By creating the opposite of worry, forest bathing de-constricts the mind. In the West, John Muir wrote: “Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.”
It’s the distance Muir’s wilderness offers that washes the spirit. Faced with nature, the ego recedes. How could it not? The mind’s struggles subside, stiff edges soften. The heart drops its defensive posture. (For your next date, try a walk in the woods.) Immersed in greenery and wood and earth, freshened by perfumed breezes, we are pushed back towards the innocence of our creation.
In art, distance is conveyed through perspective, giving us a sense of depth and also of the artist’s point of view. Perspective adds a new dimension to a two-dimensional construct. I think the opposite is also true; we gain perspective through distance. Isn’t perspective what an un-narrow mind permits? By distancing ourselves from our stress-laden ego, by expanding the gaps between our thoughts, we’re bound to uncover new dimensions, new points of view.
And while new perspectives might seem disorienting at first, they enrich us over time.