The Deeper Psychology of Creativity


For much of the day I have been feeling off center, oddly fragile. My focus is less keen than usual; I’m definitely off balance. And yet as I now begin to write, I immediately settle, without trying at all. It seems that the very intention to create -- whether with a plan or not -- recenters me. Perhaps my off-balanced state gives me an energetic edge, providing both impetus and fuel for creativity. This fuel, once ignited, rearranges me into a conducive environment for what needs to be written. A magic of which I never tire.
Not that it always begins like this; often I feel stable and settled well before I sit down to write. But always there is surplus energy as soon as I start, even if I am exhausted. Diverse and sometimes discordant elements in me find a common rhythm, a central pulse and purpose in which all can share and be given a voice simultaneously individual and collective.

So as soon as creativity shifts from intention to actual expression, it seems that internal elements -- desires, thoughts, feelings, habits that take turns masquerading as me -- line up. But no, it’s before that, in the very genesis of intention. At the first whiff of creative possibility, the scattered elements within me quickly find a working harmony, like a bunch of previously autonomous cells forming a colony -- a primordial cooperative capable of an originality not before possible.

This organic collaboration, a vital community of previously diverse and/or discordant elements within, provides much of the juice -- and perhaps also the animating spark -- for creativity. It may even be that the intimacy we cultivate with these elements, and with their interrelationship, largely determines the depth and reach of our creativity.

But to whom or to what do we -- or can we -- give the credit for “our” creativity? So much is involved in the whole process, not just internally, but also externally. Weather, food, traffic, time available, relationship dynamics -- an outer collaboration paralleling the inner.

Others in our life may not seem to be as creative as us, but without them we likely would not create as we do. Their presence, doings, intentions, and quality of relationship with us affect our creativity. In fact, at times we may simply serve as a channel for ideas and artistry that arose more in them than us, but that they were unable to express. So we express it for them.

And, ultimately, for all of us. Forget the notion that our heightened creativity makes us more special than others. No. Everyone and everything with whom, and with which, we are involved is part of this process. We’re needed, yes, but so are they. Is the flower more important than its stem or roots? Can its bloom truly be separated from the sunlight, water, weather, and soil that brought it into being? Furthermore, can these flower-precursors themselves truly be separated from what brought them into being? Creativity, therefore, is not something I do, but something we do, owned by none and belonging to all.

It is crucial not to overassociate creativity with artists. Our everyday creativity -- which may manifest in how we do the dishes or handle a trying conversation -- is not necessarily any less original or significant than the productions of recognized artists. Just because there is no frame around something does not mean it is not creative.

Still, we can learn much about our own creativity from examining the lives of those far more driven to create than us. Modern research, as well as historical evidence, closely links creativity, especially high creativity, with mental and emotional states that are typically viewed as being far from “normal”(see Note 1). The aberrant condition -- bipolar disorders, drug excesses, addictions, and so on -- of many artists and writers appears to be intimately connected with their creativity (see Note 2).

But what about the rest of us? Are we sentenced to being less creative because we’re less prone to extreme mood swings, madness, or drug intoxication? No. We might be less creative simply because we’re more cut off from our own psychoemotional rawness. We may have overbudgeted for defense against our own ups and downs. Nevertheless, the very imbalances and abnormalities we see dramatized in many artists exist in us also, if only in our dreams, needing not much more than a timely unchaining, in conjunction with a constructive intent, to spill over into creativity.

When creativity is at its most potent, we may feel as though we have been taken over, possessed, literally occupied by the creative process. It is this ability to be possessed -- nondestructively possessed -- in conjunction with some degree of mood elevation (see Note 3), that largely determines our creative reach. If we are busy being in control, flattening out our highs and lows -- or, worse, pathologizing the non-normal -- we simply obstruct creativity, by robbing it of the energy differentials on which it feeds. The very states that have the power to take us over -- lust, rage, ecstasy, grief -- need to be approached not with leveling agendas, but rather with enough openness so that their essential energies might be channeled into creativity.

The more in contact we are with our depths, the more creative we will tend to be; but much depends on how such contact is made. Some do so dysfunctionally, through self-destructive or pathological freefalls. Others do so through a more conscious descent -- they are not forced into proximity with the wonders and horrors of the deep, but instead choose and develop intimacy with them. As we cease avoiding our out-of-balance and on-the-edge states, learning to cultivate comfort with our discomfort, we will not only suffer less, but our creativity will flow more easily.

We don’t access our inner treasure by avoiding the dragon, nor by blindly leaping into its lair. Some may get too close too soon to the dragon, and so cannot integrate what surfaces for them as they encounter such darkly overwhelming intensity. What works best is developing intimacy with the dragon -- gradually and consciously -- so that its fire provides not just heat, but also light.

Creativity begins with being touched by and touching the edges of our interiority. The resulting energies -- in conjunction with a dynamic receptivity -- fuel an expression that is significantly original and meaningful.

The ground of creativity is energy not committed to a particular position, energy that is enough on the loose to be available for originality-generating conversion. The sky of creativity is sentient openness. The richer the energy, the richer the creativity.

Creativity creates the illusion of a self-contained creator, a somebody doing it, but in fact it births and delivers itself, if we will but give our permission. That is, we don’t do it, but without us it cannot be done. Instead of dancing, we are danced. At essence, creativity bypasses egoity, though egoity may claim credit for creativity’s products. In the throes of pure creativity, we primarily exist as an intimate witnessing of what is unfolding. We are then not the creator, but are simply present for -- and also perhaps even as -- the creative process.

Creativity best flourishes when we are out of our own way. We then do not so much make the music, as make room for it, recognizing that creativity ultimately is not something we do, but something we are.


Notes

1. For example, one researcher found that four out of five eminent creative writers had a major mood disorder. She also found that the psychiatrically normal relatives of her creative writers showed more creativity than did the relatives of her control subjects. Other research also backs this. Why is this? Consider the finding that “thought disorder” -- as found in manic and schizophrenic patients -- occurs in much the same way in the first-degree relatives of such patients, including relatives who themselves are not clinically ill. This way of thinking -- supposedly dysfunctional yet arguably rich with creative ferment -- can be a symptom of mental illness, and it also can be a option, a choice exercised for creative purposes. Having access to many conceptual modes, including the seemingly primitive or divergent or even chaotic, supports deeper creativity, so long as we stop equating “abnormal” with “ill.”

2. Consider Ingmar Bergman: His close contact -- even intimacy -- with his demons is reflected in many of his films, such as Hour of the Wolf, Cries and Whispers, and Fanny and Alexander. His portrayal of dreams is especially striking in this regard. In 1949 he, suffering from perhaps too much proximity to his demons, was psychiatrically hospitalized and placed under heavy sedation. Not surprisingly, the driving force of his creativity disappeared. Once out of the clinic -- three weeks later -- he abruptly stopped taking his medication. Without his tranquilizers, his anxiety was enormous, his insomnia total. But, eventually, his suppressed rage strongly surfaced, giving him the power to not be overrun by his demons. Yes, they remained, but so too did his creative genius.

This, however, does not mean that pharmaceutical treatment always will suppress creativity. Medication that is needed -- as when suicide lurks near -- may “flatten” us, leaving us marooned from our muse, but it may also in some cases actually increase creative potential. If one is at even more of an edge than Bergman was, one would likely do well to at least try medication before deciding that it is an obstacle to one’s creativity. Suffering may fuel our creativity, but only up to a certain point.

3. A state of mild mood elevation enhances creativity, perhaps because even a very slight mood elevation can increase unusual word associations (which increases creativity) and creative problem solving .