What is art? This is the greatly debated question, which I delve into in great detail in my book, An Artist Empowered.

Art teaches mostly what not to do: do not prejudge; do not assume, do not judge, do not falter, do not give your power away, do not give into pettiness, and do not accept secondhand information, which is what it sounds like.

Art, and it is magic art that I’m writing about, allows us to feel (not think or conceptualize with preconditions) with our emotional intelligence the presence of transcendence; in this sense, art is an artifact of truth. Why is this important? Life without transcendence, poetry, courage, and spirit is sterile.

When you have made that trip to the mountain, wherever it might be and at whatever the cost, no one can confuse you with whispers of doubt. 

Excuses.

What are they? Why do you use them? Are you an excuse abuser? Can you hear how you diminish your own self with the self-justifications that limit you—as a creator and a human being?

Remember, the true artist will always find a way. This is the mantra you need to indelibly etch into your consciousness for the next time you begin to utter that excuse in whatever form.

Excuses are what they sound like, so said the master.

The question came up.

Am a writer who paints or a painter who writes?

So, as not to box myself into labels and corners, I said: “I’m a creator who writes and paints. Remember, an artist, a creator, has no medium.

If the metaphysical shoe fits, wear it.

We’ve all been there. If only we could go back in time and right a wrong—one of our own doing.

To feel regret without an act of contrition that addresses remorse in some meaningful way is disingenuous and a victim’s game.

While the soul is perfection, we are not—which is a debated topic. As an artist, my dharma is to reflect truth; I leave perfection to consciousness, which does not require our help.

So, when the next opportunity to right that wrong reveals itself, grab the brass ring and burn away the karma that has been dragging you down. 

Years ago in a cafe near the beach in Santa Monica, California, the Zen master asked me: “Why do you want to be artist?”

As I’ve said before, this is the question. Have you answered this core question to your own satisfaction?

If not, you might as well be a doctor, carpenter, or a plumber—professions that society values.

I did answer the master and without hesitation. What would your answer have been?