When Julian of Norwich was about 30 years old, she was struck with an illness so severe she knew she would not survive. When she was administered last rites, she began to experience visions from God. Fifteen visions lasted throughout the afternoon of 13 May 1373 CE. A final vision came the next evening, when she woke completely cured and, shortly afterwards, wrote them down. She is the author of the phrase made famous by T S Eliot: “And all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

This declaration that “all manner of thing shall be well” does not eliminate misfortune, sickness or death. It is pointing to what all the respected wise ones say about the ability to find peace, and even joy, in the eye of the storm — to come to trust that there is something that transcends chaos and impermanence.

Practicing accepting whatever comes is often misunderstood to mean being passive, or not taking action. This is incorrect. Acceptance is the knowledge that opening to what is creates the ability to act more effectively, with clarity. Saying “yes” to whatever storm hits is an ongoing practice. It comes from knowing that anxiety is contagious, pervasive and debilitating. It easily folds itself into anyone else’s anxiety, and multiplies. It can even become a convenient entertainment, keeping you stuck in a story that limits your ability to see or act in a meaningful way. Welcoming what comes resides in vanquishing any thought that your situation should be any different than it is. I can already feel the freedom in this.

This week I have been reading Image Making in Arctic Art*, an article written in the 1960s about the the indigenous people living in the desolate Arctic tundra. It’s hard for most of us to imagine that in addition to no electricity, running water, heat, etc. …it is so cold that nothing grows. No trees in a flat landscape. They live in a white and gray shifting world of wind and ice. Life is uncomplicated by email, texts, phones, radio, TV, internet, cars, and airplanes. Their days are made of bare essentials — of finding food and oil for their lamps, to have enough light and warmth inside their ice igloos. In this bare existence, poetry and art are also part of survival. Poetry and art are food. There is no separation made between the need for the hunt and the need to create. Being makers is part of their sustenance. They make their own music, singing and humming as they work, reciting poetry, asking the unformed tusk: Who are you? Who hides there?

Edmund Carpenter* records a story from the 1700s of two Arctic hunters following a snowshoe print in the vast empty landscape; it leads to a young woman sitting alone in a hut. She has been there for seven months without seeing a single human. She tells of her whole family — her parents, her husband and her baby — being murdered by a hostile band. She alone survived. What struck these hunters most deeply was her dignity and composure. In spite of this unimaginable loss, and having to survive alone for months by snaring small game, she sat beautifully dressed, taking the time in her isolation and grief to decorate her dress with small found objects, placed in pleasing patterns.

Perhaps in the story of the young woman there is also the idea that you can open your imagination to finding what you need to be a maker, regardless of the circumstances you find yourself in.

Twice a year I return to Taos, New Mexico to teach. Outside our lodge at the Mabel Dodge Luhan Retreat there is a magnificent old cottonwood tree. It is fed by water in the arroyo it rises above.

At our refuge in Taos, situated next to sacred Pueblo land, we feel the closeness of the landscape. It is high desert, and the presence of this tree is welcome shade and vertical majesty.

This week I went to my local bookstore, and asked the clerk: Why is it that if I buy a new notebook, I think I may write something worthwhile? Nonetheless, inspired by spring, I bought a new little notebook for my new lists, along with Austin Kleon’s Keep Going, which I have really enjoyed reading this week.