Take an Artist Date
I watch my daughter file up the stairs behind her ballet instructor, following nine other little dancers with tiny buns tight at the top of their heads. My heart swells up with good feeling, knowing she’s entering into a space that is all her own to do something that sets her heart on fire. And also, because it means I get the next 43 minutes to myself.
I walk out of the arts center and down a path into the heart of campus. What’s next is like a Choose Your Own Adventure story.
A left turn to the greenhouse offers a sweet escape from the apathetic clouds that hang over the Midwest indefinitely. There, I’ll hang my winter jacket on a hook by the door and enter into cool growing rooms, unpolished and lined with tables of baby plants carefully marked and observed for undergraduate research projects. Then, into the steamy hall of tropical plants, where giant banana leaves press against the ceiling panes. Do they know they’re rooted in Indiana soil? Or are they convinced they’re in Brazil, with the rest of their genus? They’ve been growing here since before I was born and their lushness is a tribute to the way I want to be in the world, verdant and unapologetically alive. A short passageway lined with ferns connects me to the arid plant exhibit, where curmudgeonly cacti challenge my notion of beauty as needing to be “soft” and “inviting.” Their spines coexist with their blossoms. This, I acknowledge, is a little more like me.
Or perhaps I will turn right, down the path to the campus art museum, a building architecturally designed without right angles, aside from where floors meet wall or ceiling. Triangular glass tiles on the roof allow in natural light, and there is a quiet peacefulness here. Not the quiet of something about to happen, but the quiet of something waiting to be seen. It’s the 19th century landscapes and Impressionism that draw me back time and time again, the scene and characters opening up like a dollhouse in my mind, ready to act out any story I might give them. Even the Renaissance works, the naked babies with slim golden halos hovering over their heads, startle my imagination and make me laugh.
But this day, I am craving quiet, and so I continue walking straight, up the hill and past Ballentine Hall to the tiny limestone chapel nestled near the Student Union. There’s a breathless quality when I pull open the heavy door, my eyes adjusting to the dimness as I search the pews. As usual, I’m the only visitor this Saturday morning. I touch the polished wood of each row as I pass, settling into a worn red bench halfway to the front. The lead-paned diamonds of wavy glass alter the view of what’s happening outside in a dreamy sort of way, and I feel more settled than I have in a long while. I set an alarm on my phone for 25 minutes to ensure I’ll be back to pick up my daughter in time, and let my mind do whatever it will. I search the oak beams above me for knots, talking to God and thanking him that I can be here, now, in this particular place and time, acknowledging it as a gift. After a handful of minutes, I take out my journal, freewriting any loose thoughts that might coalesce later into something to share with the world. I think of all the people who’ve passed through this tiny house of God, each with their own fears and worries, hopes and dreams, and it seems that this very small chapel is reminding me that what is hidden within us is sometimes the most essential part of who we are.
When the alarm on my phone goes off, I feel ready to meet the rest of the day. It’s amazing how little time it takes to oneself in a sensory-rich environment to truly restore us. Julia Cameron calls trips like these “Artist Dates” and recommends taking them once a week for a few hours to keep our well of images stocked, and let our inner-artist know that she is valued. I prefer to think of moments like these as a field trip for my soul. They absolutely restore me creatively, but more essentially, they allow my spirit a moment to breathe. These micro-adventures give my mind a chance to be quiet, and my heart a little more room to reveal itself.
Design a Field Trip for Your Soul
With just 45 minutes in my own hometown (and I do admit, it’s an especially lovely hometown), I can unleash my inner-dreamer and return to my work and my family a little more “Me.” Follow the prompts below to discover how to date your inner artist, or design a field trip for your soul.
Make a list of beautiful, peaceful, or stimulating places within a 30-minute drive of your home.
I mentioned a greenhouse, a chapel, and an art museum, but I also frequent a hiking trail by a local reservoir, a little stream tucked into the woods, and long car rides out to the lake blaring any kind of music that makes me feel alive.
Set an intention for the time you have.
And I recommend not tying the intention to any kind of end result or product. If you pressure yourself to find inspiration for your next essay, or a resolution to a plot line, you might just spend the entire time up in your head. Instead, try to stay grounded in the physical sensations of being where you are, allow your mind to wander through connections and metaphors without immediately stopping to write them down. Trust that giving yourself this time will bear fruit, and simply enjoy it.
Know when it’s needed, but don’t wait till then.
Taking these moments isn’t a weekly experience for me. Often, my younger son is tagging along to the ballet class, or I use the time to run errands. But when I feel weighed down by the obligations of adulthood, or as Bilbo Baggins might say, “sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread,” I know it is time for a field trip, for a date with myself. I try not to wait until it feels necessary, though, knowing that even a slim margin of time can pay dividends if I use it the right way.
Tell someone about it.
When it’s over, savor the experience by sharing it with a friend, capturing a simple photo and posting a brief reflection on social media, or even just telling your kids what you’ve been up to. You don’t have to give away your secrets, but I’ve found that letting people I love see me lit up with the joy of inspiration is essential. They won’t fully know me—I won’t fully know myself—unless they know me as I am filled to the very brim, eyes open to the beauty around me, and grateful to be alive.