It's Never Too Late to Begin Again: Discovering Creativity and Meaning at Midlife and Beyond

250 Pages·2010·1.59 MB·English

by  Julia Cameron

ALSO BY JULIA CAMERON
BOOKS IN THE ARTIST’S WAY SERIES
The Artist’s Way
The Artist’s Way For Parents
(with Emma Lively) Walking in This World
Finding Water
The Complete Artist’s Way The Artist’s Way Workbook The Artist’s Way Every Day The Artist’s Way
Morning Pages Journal The Artist’s Date Book
(illustrated by Elizabeth Cameron) Inspirations: Meditations from The Artist’s Way
OTHER BOOKS ON CREATIVITY
The Prosperous Heart
(with Emma Lively) Prosperity Every Day
The Writing Diet
The Right to Write
The Sound of Paper
The Vein of Gold
How to Avoid Making Art (or Anything Else You Enjoy)
(illustrated by Elizabeth Cameron) Supplies: A Troubleshooting Guide for Creative Difficulties The
Writer’s Life: Insights from The Right to Write The Artist’s Way at Work
(with Mark Bryan and Catherine Allen) Money Drunk, Money Sober
(with Mark Bryan) The Creative Life
PRAYER BOOKS
Answered Prayers
Heart Steps
Blessings
Transitions
Prayers to the Great Creator
BOOKS ON SPIRITUALITY
Safe Journey
Prayers from a Nonbeliever Letters to a Young Artist God Is No Laughing Matter God Is Dog Spelled
Backwards
(illustrated by Elizabeth Cameron) Faith and Will
MEMOIR
Floor Sample: A Creative Memoir
FICTION
Mozart’s Ghost
Popcorn: Hollywood Stories The Dark Room
PLAYS
Public Lives
The Animal in the Trees
Four Roses
Love in the DMZ
Avalon (a musical) The Medium at Large (a musical) Magellan (a musical)
POETRY
Prayers for the Little Ones Prayers to the Nature Spirits The Quiet Animal
This Earth
(also an album with Tim Wheater) FEATURE FILM
(as writer-director) God’s Will

This book is dedicated to Jeremy Tarcher, whose lifelong creativity
inspired us all.
Contents
Also by Julia Cameron
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
WEEK ONE Reigniting a Sense of Wonder
WEEK TWO Reigniting a Sense of Freedom
WEEK THREE Reigniting a Sense of Connection
WEEK FOUR Reigniting a Sense of Purpose
WEEK FIVE Reigniting a Sense of Honesty
WEEK SIX Reigniting a Sense of Humility
WEEK SEVEN Reigniting a Sense of Resilience
WEEK EIGHT Reigniting a Sense of Joy
WEEK NINE Reigniting a Sense of Motion
WEEK TEN Reigniting a Sense of Vitality
WEEK ELEVEN Reigniting a Sense of Adventure
WEEK TWELVE Reigniting a Sense of Faith
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Index
Introduction
T
wenty-five years ago I wrote a book on creativity called The Artist’s
Way. It spelled out, in a step-by-step fashion, just what a person could
do to recover—and exercise—their creativity. I often called that book
“The Bridge” because it allowed people to move from the shore of
their constrictions and fears to the promised land of deeply fulfilling creativity.
The Artist’s Way was used by people of all ages, but I found my just-retired
students the most poignant. I sensed in them a particular problem set that came
with maturity. Over the years, many of them asked me for help dealing with
issues specific to transitioning out of the work force. The book you hold in your
hands is the distillate of a quarter century’s teaching. It is my attempt to answer,
“What next?” for students who are embarking on their “second act.” In this book
you will find the common problems facing the newly retired: too much time,
lack of structure, a sense that our physical surroundings suddenly seem outdated,
excitement about the future coupled with a palpable fear of the unknown. As a
friend of mine worried recently, “All I do is work. When I stop working, will I
do . . . nothing?”
The answer is no. You will not do “nothing.” You will do many things. You
will be surprised and delighted by the well of colorful inspiration that lies within
you—a well that you alone can tap. You will discover that you are not alone in
your desires, and that there are creativity tools that can help you navigate the
specific issues of retirement. Those who worked the Artist’s Way will find some
of the tools familiar. Other tools are new, or their use is innovative. This book
attempts to address many taboo subjects for the newly retired: boredom,
giddiness, a sense of being untethered, irritability, excitement, and depression, to
name just a few. It seeks to give its practitioners a simple set of tools that, used
in combination, will trigger a creative rebirth. It attempts to prove that everyone
is creative—and that it is never too late to explore your creativity.
When my father entered retirement after a busy and successful thirty-five
years as an account executive in advertising, he turned to nature. He acquired a
black Scottie dog named Blue that he took for long, daily walks. He also
acquired a pair of birding binoculars and found that the hourly tally of winged
friends brought him wonder and joy. He spotted finches, juncos, chickadees,
wrens, and more exotic visitors, like egrets. He lived half the year on a sailboat
in Florida and half the year just outside of Chicago. He enjoyed the differing
bird populations and was enchanted by their antics. When it got too dangerous
for him to live alone on his boat, he moved to the north permanently, settling
into a small cottage on a lagoon. There he spotted cardinals, tanagers, blue jays,
owls, and the occasional hawk. When I would visit him, he would share his love
of birding. His enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself buying Audubon
prints of the birds my father was spotting. Mounted and carefully framed, the
prints brought me much joy. My father’s newfound hobby soon became my own,
if only in snatches.
“It just takes time and attention,” my dad would say. Retired, he found he had
both. The birds kept my father company. He was thrilled when a great blue
heron established a nest within his view. Visiting my father, I would always
hope for a glimpse. The herons were lovely and elegant. My father waited for
them patiently. His patience was a gift of his retirement. During his high-
powered and stress-filled career, he had no dog and no birds. But nature had
called to him, and it was a call he was only able to respond to fully once he
retired.
At age fifty-four, I moved to Manhattan. At age sixty-four, entering my own
seniority, I moved to Santa Fe. I knew two people who lived in Santa Fe: Natalie
Goldberg, the writing teacher, and Elberta Honstein, who raised champion
Morgan horses. It could be argued that I had my two most important bases
covered. I loved writing and I loved horses. In my ten years in Manhattan, I had
written freely, but I didn’t ride. It was an Artist’s Way exercise that moved me to
Santa Fe. I had made a list of twenty-five things that I loved, and high on that list
were sage, chamisa, juniper, magpies, red-winged blackbirds, and big skies. In
short, a list of the Southwest. Nowhere on the list did New York put in an
appearance. No, my loves were all Western flora and fauna: deer, coyotes,
bobcats, eagles, hawks. I didn’t think about my age when I made my list,
although I now realize that the move from New York to Santa Fe might be my
last major move.
Allotting myself three days to find a place to live, I flew from New York to
Santa Fe and began hunting. I made a list of everything I thought I wanted: an
apartment, not a house; walking distance to restaurants and coffee shops;
mountain views. The first place the Realtor showed me had every single trait on
my list, and I hated it. We moved on, viewing listing after listing. Many of the
rentals featured pale carpeting, and I knew from my years in Taos that such
carpeting was an invitation for disaster.
Finally, late on my first day of hunting, my Realtor drove us to a final house.
“I don’t know why I’m showing you this,” she began, winding her way
through a maze of dirt roads to a small adobe house with a yard strewn with
toys. “A woman with four children lives here,” she apologized. I peered into the
house. Toys and clothing were strewn every which way. Couches were shoved
chockablock.
“I’ll take it,” I told my startled Realtor. The house was nestled among juniper
trees. It had no mountain views. It was miles from restaurants and cafés. Yet, it
shouted “home” to me. Its steep driveway would be treacherous in winter, and I
sensed that I would have to become accustomed to being snowbound. But it also
featured a windowed, octagonal room surrounded by trees. I knew my father
would have loved this “bird room.” I made it my writing room, and I have
appreciated my daily dose of aviary enlightenment every day that I have lived
here.
I have lived in this adobe house halfway up the mountain for almost three
years now, collecting books and friends. Santa Fe has proven to be hospitable. It
is a town full of readers, where my work is appreciated. Often, I am recognized
from my dust jacket photo. “Thank you for your books,” people say. I put my
life in Santa Fe together in a painstaking way. My friendships are grounded in
common interests. I myself believe creativity is a spiritual path, and my friends
number many Buddhists and Wiccans among them. Every three months, I go
back to Manhattan, where I teach workshops. The city feels welcoming but
overwhelming. I identify myself to my students as “Julia from Santa Fe.” I love
living there, I tell them, and it’s true.
My mail comes to a rickety mailbox at the foot of my drive. I have to force
myself to open the mailbox and retrieve it. So much of what I receive is
unwelcome. In March of my first year in Santa Fe, I turned sixty-five. But it was
in January that my mail became infested with propaganda related to aging.
Daily, I would receive notices about Medicare and special insurance targeting
me as a senior. The mail felt intrusive, as if I were being watched. Just how,
precisely, did the many petitioners know that I was turning sixty-five?
I found myself dreading my birthday. I might have felt young at heart, yet I
was officially categorized as a senior. The mail went so far as to solicit my
payment on a gravesite. Clearly I was not only aging, I was nearing the end of
my life. Did I want my family saddled with burial costs? No, I did not.
The mail became a mirror that reflected me back in a harsh and unforgiving
light. My laugh lines became wrinkles. My throat displayed creases. I thought of
Nora Ephron’s memoir I Feel Bad About My Neck. When first I read it at sixty, I
thought it was melodramatic. But that was before I felt bad about my own neck,
before I turned sixty-five and became a certified elder.
The term “senior” officially applies to those sixty-five and older. But not
everyone who is called a senior feels like a senior. And not everyone who retires
is sixty-five. Some retire at fifty, some at eighty. Age is a relative thing. Most
working artists never retire. As director John Cassavetes put it, “No matter how
old you get, if you can keep the desire to be creative, you’re keeping the man-
child alive.” Cassavetes himself was a fine example of what might be called
“youthful aging.” He both acted and directed, making and attending films that
reflected his own convictions. Working with an ensemble of actors that included
his wife, Gena Rowlands, he told tales of intimacy and connection. As he aged,
Cassavetes cast himself in his films, portraying troubled and conflicted men. His
passion was palpable. Even if he played the oldest character in the movie, he was
always young at heart. Taking a cue from Cassavetes, we can retain a passionate
interest in life. We can throw ourselves wholeheartedly into projects. At sixty-
five, we can still be vibrant beginners.
I’m told the median age in Santa Fe is sixty. It’s true that when I go grocery
shopping I note many elders pushing carts. People retire to Santa Fe. I have
almost become used to the question, “Are you still writing?” The truth is, I
cannot imagine not writing. I go from project to project, always frightened by
the gap in between. I catch myself distrusting my own process. No matter that I
have forty-plus books to my credit, I am afraid that each book will be my last,
that I will finally be stymied by age.
Recently, I went to talk to Barbara McCandlish, a gifted therapist.
“I’m sad,” I told her. “I’m afraid I’ll never write again.”
“I think you’re afraid of aging,” said Barbara. “I think if you write about that,
you’ll find yourself writing freely again.”
The answer is always creativity.
Theater playwright Richard Nelson throws himself into new projects. His age
is not an issue. One of his more recent works, the theatrical cycle The Apple
Family Plays, sets an example of just what is possible with commitment.
Excellent writer John Bowers published his first novel, End of Story, at age
sixty. At age sixty-four, he is hard at work on a second novel, longer and more
ambitious than his first—and he’s quick to remark that Laura Ingalls Wilder
published Little House in the Big Woods when she was sixty-four. John opened
his recent book signing in Santa Fe by remarking that the bright stage lights
revealed his many wrinkles. An attractive man, he carries his age lightly—