I have a hot date
It's not with my husband
I’ve experienced my fair share of drama - so my uneventful, ordinary, rather routine life of today - suits me just fine. It’s mainly lived within a nine-mile radius, between home and my nearest town centre. Most often it’s lived within a three mile-radius, the edge of which is marked by my daughter’s bus stop. The odd morning swim adds a little spice, just enough, but not too much.
Routine and repetition calms and grounds me. But I also long for adventure. For spontaneity. For sparkle.
I discovered the practice of artist’s dates two years ago via the book, The Artist’s Way. According to the author, if writing daily morning pages are the work of getting creatively unblocked - allowing yourself to write whatever the hell it is you want for three pages - then Artist’s Dates are the play: Once-a-week solo adventures you take just for fun.
They don’t have to cost money, or even involve leaving the house. It could be thirty minutes or a whole day. It doesn’t matter. You make it fit your life, and what you’d love to do.
The pages turned out to to be the easier part, but in two years I’ve only been on eight artist’s dates - a track record that likely mirrors many marriages. Thankfully not mine [well not my current one, anyway.]
But I digress. The idea of an artist’s date is to delight the young part of you. To take her on a trip, alone, that feels fun and frivolous. To follow your curiosity, rather than sensible you. It’s not about using the time to improve, or to learn something relevant and logical. If your strict [inner] parents would approve, you’re likely on the wrong track.Â
It also needs to be scheduled ahead of time. You can’t just pop into Hobbycraft to buy glue, glitter and paint for your son’s homework, spend ten minutes messing about at the pottery wheel, and call it a date.
In exactly the same way that slumping in front of the latest instalment of The Crown with one’s partner is not a date. Unless you’ve planned it. Changed out of your joggers and spritzed on some Dior. Eaten together at the table, off the good crockery that matches.
The anticipation is part of the experience. Much like a first date, or first kiss, it’s possibly the best part, or at least on a par with the main event.
Apparently I’m not alone with skipping these weekly dates. It’s the part most people working the Artist’s Way resist, but when they eventually dive in, their conclusion’s the same as mine.
OMG. Why don’t we do this more often? Â
Whenever I stop taking life so seriously, and make space for whatever nonsensical thing is calling to me - whether via an official pre-planned date or not - I return nourished. Enlivened. In so many non-linear ways I’m more ready and able to be in my life as it is right now. I’m more able to appreciate what’s here and who’s here, without anything needing to be different.
I’m writing this on Saturday evening. My ex has just picked the kids up. My husband’s at the gym. As I tap away at my laptop, just the thought of Thursday is giving me goosebumps.
Catching the bus into town. Perhaps enjoying a hot chocolate as I chug into Paddington on the train. Walking along the Thames, checking into my hotel room, then finding somewhere to eat. Taking my seat in the concert hall. Watching the London Symphony Orchestra from my front row stalls seat.Â
Knowing all of the above will part of my life, this week - this ordinary week - is making the evening ahead, seem like an actual hot date. And I’m in my joggers. The Crown awaits. As do my wooly socks and blanket, once my husband returns from his workout.
This particular outing is admittedly extravagant. It will inhabit most of my Thursday, and all of Thursday night. But I have some making up to do, and it’s also special for another reason:
The orchestra and repertoire will be wonderful I’m sure, but it’s the conductor I want to see. I met her once, more than two decades ago, when she conducted a piece of music I’d composed. My young self - my twenty-one year old self - wants to be in the same room as her again.Â
It was a spontaneous conversation with my daughter and one of her musical friends that had me Google her, and discover her visit to London. It’s why I’ve chosen this particular concert. Going only for this reason makes no sense, and yet it does to young me.
And I also know it will not all be champagne and roses. Whenever I step into a concert hall I feel a pang. It’s a world I turned away from, and yet today - right now - I’m celebrating my choice to turn back towards it: Towards art. Towards beauty. Towards opening myself to experiences that make life richer.
To being okay with it being messy, and complicated, and incomplete, and ridden with difficult feelings alongside the joy - because I would rather feel all of it, than feel numb. Which is how I used to feel, much of the time.
I’m grateful that my husband bought me The Artist’s Way, when I’d never heard of it [aren’t the best presents those gifts you had no idea were coming?]
And I’m grateful that I read it, that I put [some of] it into practice. I’m grateful for the adventures it will take me on. For the adventures I will take myself on, as I continue to follow the messages that arise from my morning ramblings/pages.
I’m grateful for the joy I’m taking in sharing small glimpses of this journey with you here. For the connection it brings.
I’m grateful for the creations of others - that inspire and enrich and add magic to the experience of being alive, in so many ways.
Thank you for being here.
With love,
Claire
Find me elsewhere:
Instagram: @clairemackinnonwrites
Website: clairemackinnon.com
LinkedIn: Claire Mackinnon
Well done you! So inspiring, Claire