Slaying Ghosts (Again)
I'm doing what I know—writing a blog—because that's how I've worked through every other problem I've faced. Why change now?
Do you want to slay some ghosts with me?
Let’s go on a familiar journey together, because I need to work through my stuff, and writing blogs is one of the best ways I know to do that. It’s how I’ve peeled back layers, challenged ideas, and faced the quiet things I’d rather ignore.
Here’s one of those things: The system—and society in general—lies to us. It tells us that everything we do should be practical. That our work, our energy, our lives, should all fit inside boxes labeled success or need or purpose or productivity.
But not everything fits. Especially not art.
Musicians and artists sometimes learn to step outside of those boxes—briefly. They let the soul lead for a while. But more often than not, the pressure creeps back in. They sing in church, perform at family events, sell their pieces at local fairs. It’s not wrong. It’s just… expected. It becomes the norm: “If you’re going to create, make it useful. Make it make sense.”
Why?
Why does art need justification? Why does creativity have to serve a purpose?
Why do we live in a society that doesn’t know how to let something simply exist?
Is it just capitalism? Is it money? Or is it something bigger than that? Why did this lie become the foundation for everything we do or create in the world?
The ghosts I’m slaying today came out of that foundation—like weeds growing through the cracks in cement. No matter how hard we try to keep them out, they find a way through anyway.
What if art is the same way?
What if the artist has to create—has to find some way to keep going? And if that means singing at family gatherings, or selling trinkets at the farmer’s market, then so be it. If that’s what it takes to keep making, then they’ll do it.
But that’s not the same as thriving. That’s survival.
So when did art become a weed fighting for survival?
And why do I keep telling myself my art is a weed that needs to die?
I created The Stillhouse Within. It’s a space for internal connection and exploration. It’s the place where lies come to die and dreams come to thrive. But like so many, I’m caught in the lie of practicality. Unlike a musician, I can’t go perform my writing at the next family gathering to make it practical. There is no farmer’s market for my verses or my books. There is no place at family gatherings for my poetry to be passed around like an appetizer or a cheese tray.
There is only my writing sitting alone in the depths of the Internet waiting to be found by somebody who didn’t even know they were looking for it.
I can’t make my writing practical today or tomorrow or even next year. Maybe not ever. My writing may never fit in the box of things that are needed, useful or successful.
But just like a musician, my writing is part of me that I can’t just abandon because society wants to treat it like a weed that needs to die.
The ghost I’m slaying is the ghost of practicality and usefulness. It’s the ghost that carries a bottle Round Up in its bag.
So far, the ghost has been winning the little battles along the way. Every new thing I’ve tried to create has succumb to a shower in weed killer. But that ghost hasn’t won the war because I still write. I keep coming back.
The truth is that my writing is not a weed anymore than the new music by that unknown artist is a weed. No amount of Round Up can stop us from sharing our individual art.
It’s not a matter of whether I can slay the ghost or not. It’s just a question of how long it takes me to do it. In the meantime, the Stillhouse waits in silence for me to return to what I know.
Love to all.
Della