When I was a kid I made up stories in my head about adventures. I was always the star -- I was the leader, fearless and cunning; my side-kicks in this were two boys and together we led a pack of cool kids who operated on the edge -- sort of "bad", but in service to the "good". Robin Hood types, I guess. I never wrote any of these stories down. But I played them out in my head, fantasies that moved across my mind like a movie reel, while I was drying the dishes or sweeping the sidewalk or sitting in class.
This morning I am thinking about creativity, its source and its expression. I just read a Facebook post by one of my writing heroes, Anne Lamott, where she admonishes us to not waste one more minute being timid and shy, procrastinating and denying the urge to create.
I started writing about 40 years ago. I have boxes and boxes of journals, essays, poems, musings; a notebook full of newsletters I've written and edited for organizations over the years; a file folder of published pieces of which I am quite proud. I started writing and performing "stand-up" poetry 7 years ago; writing essays for UU Sunday services around that time as well. I started this blog in 2012 and have written 122 essay posts for it. I have four poems in a recently self-published chapbook by my women's poetry group. Seventy people came to the book launch last month. I just found out I will have four pieces (two poems and two essays) in a Northwest Women Writers anthology next year. I've written song lyrics that are being performed and recorded by my musician friends.
So, why is it that when people ask, "What do you do?" my answer is "I'm a retired Social Worker." Why is it I can NEVER say, "I'm a writer." Why is it safer to be a retired something or other (I had socially-recognized value once!) rather than to declare that the thing I most love is what I do? (Even when a huge part of that career was writing -- home studies, grants, newsletters and other communications of all types.)
I think it's the timid and shy self-depracating tendency to not believe in one's creative urge that Anne Lamott talks about. I think it's the rejection letters from magazines and Random House's reluctance to seek out my talent and make me rich and famous. I think it's the little girl who still lives within me, who was quiet and anxious a lot of the time, who was taught not to call attention to herself, the one who always played it safe and never took risks, who played out being powerful (even the leader of boys!) within her rich fantasy life -- the fantasy that felt so impossible within the real world that it became a movie of the mind.
But what would happen if we all lived our passion out loud? What if we identified by our creative center rather than the practical worldly way we support ourselves. (Sometimes, if we are lucky, they are the same thing, but often not.) What if we asked "what do you love?; who are you?" instead of "what do you do?" The checker at Safeway might answer: "I am a dancer." Or the teacher may say, "I am a potter." Or the longshoreman could respond, "I'm an opera singer." Or the computer programmer declare, "I'm a farmer." Wouldn't that be a wonderful way to know each other?
And maybe that would free us to claim our own power, not relegating it to live within a fantasy life, but rather embracing it in the real world. Who doesn't feel more powerful when actively living the "real me" rather that the one we try to fit into a mold of who we are "supposed" to be? Maybe I would have been a classroom leader, a force for good, rather than the little girl in the middle of the pack, hoping for cool friends and accolades by association.
We all have a creative urge, a rich inner life that is moving through us, rising and falling, looking for expression. What if our very purpose for being alive in this world was to allow this spark to ignite; to practice, fail, keep going; to know each other's deepest longing for expression and to support that quest joyfully and with celebration. What do you love? Who are you?
I'll start: I'm a writer.
At least, that's the view from here…. ©
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