What is your creative ritual? The seance that you use to conjure your visionary creations? Every muse is a tool— a soulmate of inspiration that is willed full-heartedly into fruition. Your desk is a doorway to unknown lands, and you are the cartographer, excavating inspiration into newborn genius.
At my writers’ desk, I burn Arabian Jasmine and Nag Champa, positioned beside potions of Gillyweed and a framed Anais Nin, who glares down at my creations in a chagrin and illuminated fashion. Morsels of woodland artifacts parade across the surface— shell encasements alongside a Tiffany lamp. A birdcage beacon of illumination rests above a shrine of our love- deceased and dried stems and florals of former bouquets handed to me in devotion. Beat Generation Jazz and Tchaikovsky Classical berates my speakers, setting a scene of lunacy and creative shell-shock. The Turkish lantern cradles a lone tea-light beside other thrifted finds. With every act of creation, I lather myself in an oud of Pluto Potion and Elizabeth Taylor’s “Passion” with the occasional huff of Fleurs Historiques et Cacao, an ancient recipe devised by the courtesans of King Henry— A seductive and distinctive scent. Next to my desk of inventions sits a table of terrariums, sculpted by dried moss and crystalline baby doll heads, barnacle brains and sea urchin. I amass a vase of dried flowers and herbs for concocting these terrariums I so solemnly sell, and hoard a cacophony of ephemera— tea-dyed paper scraps and stained glass stickers. Medieval pages and attic manuscripts are cut and collaged onto unwilling parchment, and this is how I craft my publications. Each of my written novels sits beside my desk, and below it rests my album of collages— a compendium of 6 years of cut-ups, Burroughs style. Books overflow onto the floors, dusted and aged with time, left untouched. And notes of worth line the curves and ebbs of the hardwood— denizens of self-development and caricatures of muse. My journals sweat history into my pores— and later, I shall touch upon my processes in another post here. I think it is absolutely wise to divide your soul into a multitude of journals.
So there it is, a written confessional devoted to the shrine of my studio-space and my library hole in the wall— and how it’s aestheticism fuels my rituals.
Please share your creative rituals in the comments, I’d love to hear about the sacredness of your space! Every page and parchment is a portable shrine, and every studio is a sculpture of an artist’s inner world.
Sincerely,
Dharma Bum Poetess
Grateful to have discovered your page—my substack algorithm is answering my prayers & intentions~thank you for being here.
As for my rituals, the most important is spending time in the magnificence of nature. Mountains. Forests. Beaches. Finding those most sacred nooks and crannies that gently force my voice out of me like a Crystal Geyser of serenity.
At home, some incense, a cup of tea, and a candle. Breath. Prayer. Allowing.
Oh wow, what a lush world! I had to read this over and over and caught new glimpses each time. The books of collages and pages overflowing onto the floor really stuck with me. I can feel the pages thick and rich with images and it makes me long for collages. I think I have a few books of old ones stashed away somewhere. The terrariums, too, feel warm and enchanting and suddenly i want to stick my hand into some moss!
I think i'd like to make some terrariums when I get back home. I'm housesitting right now so I don't have all my marvels and talismans surrounding me. But i have started making little bowls of the flowers I pick on my walks. And i did bring with me some candles though i am always unsure about burning incense in others houses, so i skipped it.
At home i also have piles and piles of books, and paper, and paints, and flowers. tiny jars and pots of ink. stacks of thick cut up paper that does or does not make it onto pages of journals. and I also burn arabian jasmine and nag champa, which made me laugh out loud when I read it. nag champa is common enough but the only other time i've encountered the jasmine is through my boyfriend.