Is creativity a glittering force in a jar, a substance in a coffer of which we have a limited amount to give each day, each month, each lifetime? Can it be exponentially filled out? Watered and greened, built upon itself? This is a question I’ve asked of myself a lot recently.
Allow me to back up a smidge.
Before starting this blog, I had many little outlets for whatever creative force grows underneath my skin. Pores through which that force was directed, a necessary dumping of the boiler, if you will. I tended to compose emails and even texts at length to my friends and family (you can ask some of my friends about my insanely long text messages – hey, it’s not my fault they don’t have iPhones). I had a propensity for Facebook status updates reading like descriptive essays, tales of times and places and moments.
That is actually what lead to my starting this blog. I had a few friends who are blog readers, and each time I’d post one of these labors of verbosity on Facebook, or send them in emails, these few friends would launch into their broken record songs, “Start a blog. Please, start a blog.” And I remember saying to them “What the actual fuck is a blog and why would anyone who doesn’t know me care about the time me and the boy were feeling sexy whilst winding through Costa Rica’s backroads in our rickety manual transmission Peugeot and decided to stop and scratch the itch in an abandoned house that wasn’t as abandoned as we’d originally surmised? Why would a stranger find that amusing?”
Ah how far I have come.
But yesterday I was in the art studio he built for me, cleaning Oat’s house (she has a few houses stationed about our floor plan) and I noticed that a soft dusty peach fuzz was growing on my drawing table. My pencils sat scattered to the side of my bench, leftover leaves under December’s snow. Random sketches creating a patchwork of completion stages atop the surface where I’d so many times brought life to paper with graphite. I never stayed away from this room for very long. It would pull me, like some wild green moon or the smell of baking sugar cookies, their crystalline crusts caramelizing in tantalizing chorus. A pressure would build, a face would haunt me, and much like a Costa Rican rendezvous, the itch needed to be scratched.
Since I’ve begun blogging, my friends are missing (or not missing) those novella-esque emails and the steady trickle of text commentary. Facebook has been stripped of my essays of moment capture, and this – my beautiful studio where I found so many treasures flowing through my hands, down the core of my pencils, and out over a pristine sheet of Strathmore 80 lb. drawing paper – now frosted in the dust of resignation.
I love this blog so much, and no, this isn’t one of those “I’m stepping away from blogging” posts. To the contrary. This blog has become the largest pore through with my creativity flows, and for that I love it, and you. I’m building a family here that can’t be found in a sketch book. But I need to brush the dust off my table. I feel that to put life to paper, to get that reflection of light just perfectly positioned on a pupil, will only drive me to write larger, and more brightly and with that much more color. I just need to consciously make time for it, instead of waiting until I can stay away no longer. That overflow, that buildup is gone now, because I come here each and every day, and I love it, and it sparkles.
But just because I no longer need to, doesn’t mean I no longer want to or can.
So this is my apology to my studio. To my pencils. To my smudge sticks and paper. I’m sorry I’ve gone, but I’ve taken the time, I’ve grown, and like the loved bird set aflight, I’m coming back. Because I want to. Because I am truly yours, and you, mine.