If there were plaques given monthly for the employee with the most golden stars, Callie's would be the face plastered all over the wall in the hallway next to the public restrooms, right around the corner from the customer service desk. All the other employees should be jealous. Everything she does she does well. If it's guarding the out of doors, she does it with panache; if it's resting, she's in the coolest spot in the house splayed out on the tile in the kitchen in the middle of everyone's feet; if it's displaying happiness, she has the toothiest, most satisfying dog smile you've ever seen; if playful, she loopdeeloops the front room to the hallway to the kitchen with the best of 'em, pausing in pounce mode occasionally just to make sure you're still watching.
But when it comes to begging, Callie is the most dedicated of all her colleagues. Incredibly patient in her strategy, she'll calmly sit directly before you with the most serene, expectant expression, vacillating her gaze between you, the eater, and the food she wishes would be shared. She will eventually scoot ever so much closer to you, but at the speed of a tortoise, so that you've hardly noticed until it's almost too late. Once you have noticed, however, if you tell her to take two steps back she'll remove her gaze from the food she was so close to scoring and look you in the eyes while taking exactly two steps back. Very innocent, very endearing, very Callie.
Callie used to have actual competition in the house. Sisters from the same litter, Maggie and Callie were threatened with death by drowning in a river in the mass grave of a farmer's sack. My mom's friend couldn't stand to let her brother-in-law do such a thing so she drove across the state to rescue a dozen great pyrenees/blue heeler puppies. The result was a sea of fluff-balls in our front lawn in Oklahoma, adults and children corralling canines in a circle, giggles escaping our throats, our faces plastered with smiles as big as the river from which the pups had escaped. The task to choose only one was met with the opposition of four children each with a heart inclined toward a different puppy. Parental compromise was made and the 4K's were allowed to keep the puppy of their choosing for a group trial period, the end of which would result in three broken-hearted youngsters and one chosen family pet. We went to sleep that night with four yippy voices in the garage and four pleading voices in the house: "Why must they stay out there? Can't you hear them? They're so sad!" Our cold-hearted parents were adamant, but I had the privilege of seeing their wisdom as I push-broomed heaps of infant dog poo out the garage door the next morning.
At the end of the trial period, no one could settle on a fair choice, so Dad wrote descriptions of the puppies on pieces of paper and drew one description out of a hat. This was how Callie came to be ours. A perfect mixture of the two breeds, her fur was calico and she was of a medium build. In the next few months we learned that she enjoyed corners and squeezing into the under sides of furniture. We were riveted as her little legs grew and she learned how to climb the stairs. She. Was. Adorable.
It was then that a wrench was thrown into Callie's serene existence. A new dog. A visiting dog. Her sister. Not amidst the heap of fluff that afternoon in our front yard, Maggie had been kept by her rescuer, with the intention of serving as a companion to a full-grown pyrenees... and a cat. But the cat wasn't consulted in this decision nor was it keen on this idea. As most cats are want to do, cat had to demonstrate its level of hierarchy, and Maggie's eye quickly learned to what extent that cat disdained her new 'companion' (read: competition, or, servant). A smaller puppy only served as batting practice for her swinging paws. I don't remember how long we kept Maggie while her family was out of town, but during that time we bonded over administering medicine to her wounded eye and lots of comforting pets. Callie and Maggie also bonded and she quickly seemed like part of the family. I remember attempting to withhold my love, because she wasn't promised to be mine, but when her family returned they asked if we wanted to keep her. From that moment on Maggie was mine.
More pyrenees in build and shape, Maggie had longer black hair, a beautiful curly tail, and the most beautiful white socks with black spots on her feet. The end of her tail looked as if it'd been accidentally dipped in a can of white paint, and her belly matched her feet. She was elegant, and I think she knew it. But she was fiercely loyal and extremely protective of me. She was my running buddy, my cuddle buddy, and she would lean so hard into me with her hello that both of us would begin to tip over.
There are two events etched in my memory related to when Mags and Cals escaped. In our chain link fencing where the gate met the body of the fence there was a gap. Insufficient construction or shifting of land over time caused it, I suppose, but whatever the reason, Dad had jerry-rigged a piece of plywood to the gate as an extension to fill in the hole. Still, the dogs somehow escaped. Therefore, on the same street where at a younger age we would host 'leaf races', a game played in the rain where you must carefully follow your own leaf before it was obstructed by a stick or went down the drain, I threw open the front door and sprinted after my own dog, who at this point had grown to around 65 pounds. My family had recently begun training under our friend in his start-up Crossfit gym, so I felt primed to practice those functional movements that Crossfit loves so much. With adrenaline pumping in my chest I caught up to her, squatted, grabbed her under the legs and performed a move between a dead-lift and a clean, and held her close to my chest and carried her all the way home, so that this functional real life workout also incorporated a bit of a sandbag carry, but instead of a dead-weight non-living thing, I was carrying a squirmy, sleek-haired dog.
The other event was more tiresome on our emotions as the dogs were both gone overnight. We couldn't find them anywhere. We performed the typical search for your dog maneuvers, asking local neighbors, throwing ourselves into cars - windows down, yelling said dogs names, heads hanging out car windows so that those extra few inches would increase our dog-sighting abilities, enlisting friends to drive around, too... to no avail. Our house was heavy and forlorn that evening as we felt the vacancy of our live-in creatures.
We attempted to go about our normal lives the following day, (I still haven't perfected the art of compartmentalizing) and late in the afternoon Mom spotted them. Across a busy street and lining the length of Rock Creek Road there was this natural woodland area called Sutton Wilderness. One of the first things I did with my Dad when I was young was to ride our bikes to the trail. For Dad it was a much slower, more boring ride, but for me at that age, the mile to the trailhead on a street with cars was tiptoeing the edge of possible death, but traversing the trail made death's escape well worth it. Connected to the border of Sutton Wilderness and right across the street from our neighborhood was a really large cemetery. It was filled in the center with the kind of stone markers that to a kid's eyes looked like houses - the kind you could walk right in but never leave - (you might be stuck, but you had room to walk!), but also had modest ancient markers right next to the street so that I loved to attempt reading them while waiting for a traffic light to turn green. It was this border where our dogs were sighted, gallivanting about with no care for the heartaches they'd caused their human family. It took a bit of coaxing to lure them home away from their playground of new smells, new tastes, and free range.
Wholly unexpectedly, Maggie died four years ago during my sophomore year at school. She had to be put down suddenly due to a quick growing cancerous tumor in her jaw. A text message received in between classes in the middle of Day of Prayer brought me the news. While waiting for my keyboarding classroom door to be unlocked, I read the text, and in cinematic dramatic fashion slid down the wall on the fourth floor of Fitzwater Hall. My heart felt like it stopped. I cried dragon-sized tears and my friend took me out for comfort donuts.
Four years later, and now in my third week visiting Albuquerque post graduation, we were prepared for Callie not to return home from a trip to the vet. She's been exhibiting signs of being in lots of pain, is fourteen years old, and for a while now has had tumors that we have checked on annually. We've been shocked she's made it this far. I've left home from school breaks hugging her neck with tears running down my face in anticipation that it would be my last time to see her, probably three times now. I said goodbye for the fourth time yesterday, but she returned, tired, but happy to be walking in the front door. She's the clock that keeps ticking. The fluff-ball that loves well; and the beggar with persistence.
Dear Callie-dog, this is my ode to you: thank you for your comforting, fluffy fur that you let me bury my face in. Thanks for tolerating Keanan when he uses you as a pillow and doesn't care for your level of comfort - you let him do it, anyway. Thank you for your delighted dance when we say those familiar words, "wanna go for a walk?!" and the way you corral us until we've gone for your leash. Thanks for the way you communicate you're ready for chow-town. We say, "are you hungry, Callie?" and you respond by licking your chops, but never before we've asked the question. Thank you for always being excited for us to return home. You may have gotten older, and you don't always spring from your rest, but you wag your tail and look our way. Thank you for remembering me. I've been away for a year at a time, and each time I return you run to me with your biggest toothy grin and bury your head in my legs and lean in like there's no tomorrow. Thank you for sitting on the front porch with me. We no longer have one in New Mexico, they aren't quite the rage they were in Oklahoma, but I like to crouch on the front step, and you sit next to me while I hold your collar so you won't chase other dogs, neighbors, or cars going by. Thanks for sniffing the thunder-storm laden sky with me when we get rare storms in ABQ. I get excited and like to crack the front door for you to smell the change in the air with me. I can tell you're usually like, 'hmm, this is weird, but thanks for the experience, human'. Oh, you definitely judge me when I'm weird, but you let me be myself without interruption except for your concerned, 'is everything okay?' look.
Sweet Callie, you have been faithful. You have been around just under half of my lifetime, and in doggy years you are well out of your youth. You've kept the grounds safe, you've kept us comforted, you've made us laugh, you've made us smile. You escaped the death of an angry farmer, you've pounced through hills of snow, you've traveled through three states, you've tasted mountain glory, you've barked at hot air balloons, you've been sprayed by skunks, and you did God knows what in a cemetery and wilderness area. I'm so glad you're still around, but when you decide to go, you've lived well, fluffer-pup. You've lived well.
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
Saturday, May 25, 2019
Just for a Moment
The air is thinner here.
24 hours on pavement instead of 3-4 in the sky tremendously help lung adjustment.
I'm getting old. The kind of old where it's become necessary to make such traveling adaptations so that your body can better adjust to changes in the climate. I'm only 31. Cringe.
Sun-rays filtered through my eyelids still shine brightly. Prisms of light dance about before the back of my hand pressed to the bridge of my nose helps to block out some intensity. Laid between pavement and skin a towel prevents inevitable bodily harm, but the decrease in clothing I'm wearing enables it. Sliding into my third day at 'home' one of my only goals thus far has been to acquire a base tan by laying out first thing when I get out of bed. Eyes still closed and with a slight smile on my face I mentally move my index finger in the air with a quick swipe. Check.
Laying on the ground in my backyard, eyes closed, I inwardly take in my surroundings. The lack of clutter comforts my ears. My senses are warmed by the wind stirring the dust and dry pine needles about me, the leaf blower powered by the man next door acts like a sort of white noise machine, and a sense of contented emptiness hangs in the air -- empty only because of what's lacking -- the rush of traffic, voices of pedestrians, the patter of someone's feet running down the apartment hallway, and the gyrating vibration of road construction. I love the city. But I also love to leave the city.
Click-clack sounds the small rectangular flap over the small rectangular door cut into the side of the garage wall, and I know that my large fluff of a canine has joined my solitary backyard party. My ears discern her paws padding and her snout sniffing. She's performing her perimeter examination before she joins me in the party's main event. At the gate near the driveway she belts out a few cautionary reminders:
Woof! this is my territory; Woof! your approach is most unwelcome; and Woof! should you not heed this warning properly you will experience regret.
By sniffing my ear and my armpit (why?) she concludes that though I'm laying prone on the ground, I'm okay, and she marches off to complete her guard duty at the other gate. Having successfully warded off threats of crow, car, and canine, she joins the reclining-on-cement-party, although her choice of prime real-estate seems to be one that is lacking in rays of sunshine.
Turning to my stomach, I rest my forehead on the book I've yet to read during these tanning sessions, as the necessity of my head seeking comfort away from the cemented ground seems to be greater than the urge to find out what happens next in A Man Called Ove. But without the distraction of another's story to occupy my mind, the goals I need to attain in the coming weeks begin to creep in...questions, action steps, a little bit of worry...
Hard stop.
NNNNOPE!
I nip the existential crisis which inevitably follows a season of intensity-suddenly-concluded in the bud. Journaling, filtering, organizing, categorizing, systematizing, planning, searching...save that for later. In time. Soon. Currently, breathe in. Feel the sun on your skin. Enjoy the lack.
Rest in this present, gifted moment.
I yawn and stretch a little, then settle back into my sprawled rag doll position. Callie does the same.
The sun still blankets my skin.
Sigh, this is nice.
24 hours on pavement instead of 3-4 in the sky tremendously help lung adjustment.
I'm getting old. The kind of old where it's become necessary to make such traveling adaptations so that your body can better adjust to changes in the climate. I'm only 31. Cringe.
Sun-rays filtered through my eyelids still shine brightly. Prisms of light dance about before the back of my hand pressed to the bridge of my nose helps to block out some intensity. Laid between pavement and skin a towel prevents inevitable bodily harm, but the decrease in clothing I'm wearing enables it. Sliding into my third day at 'home' one of my only goals thus far has been to acquire a base tan by laying out first thing when I get out of bed. Eyes still closed and with a slight smile on my face I mentally move my index finger in the air with a quick swipe. Check.
Laying on the ground in my backyard, eyes closed, I inwardly take in my surroundings. The lack of clutter comforts my ears. My senses are warmed by the wind stirring the dust and dry pine needles about me, the leaf blower powered by the man next door acts like a sort of white noise machine, and a sense of contented emptiness hangs in the air -- empty only because of what's lacking -- the rush of traffic, voices of pedestrians, the patter of someone's feet running down the apartment hallway, and the gyrating vibration of road construction. I love the city. But I also love to leave the city.
Click-clack sounds the small rectangular flap over the small rectangular door cut into the side of the garage wall, and I know that my large fluff of a canine has joined my solitary backyard party. My ears discern her paws padding and her snout sniffing. She's performing her perimeter examination before she joins me in the party's main event. At the gate near the driveway she belts out a few cautionary reminders:
Woof! this is my territory; Woof! your approach is most unwelcome; and Woof! should you not heed this warning properly you will experience regret.
By sniffing my ear and my armpit (why?) she concludes that though I'm laying prone on the ground, I'm okay, and she marches off to complete her guard duty at the other gate. Having successfully warded off threats of crow, car, and canine, she joins the reclining-on-cement-party, although her choice of prime real-estate seems to be one that is lacking in rays of sunshine.
Turning to my stomach, I rest my forehead on the book I've yet to read during these tanning sessions, as the necessity of my head seeking comfort away from the cemented ground seems to be greater than the urge to find out what happens next in A Man Called Ove. But without the distraction of another's story to occupy my mind, the goals I need to attain in the coming weeks begin to creep in...questions, action steps, a little bit of worry...
Hard stop.
NNNNOPE!
I nip the existential crisis which inevitably follows a season of intensity-suddenly-concluded in the bud. Journaling, filtering, organizing, categorizing, systematizing, planning, searching...save that for later. In time. Soon. Currently, breathe in. Feel the sun on your skin. Enjoy the lack.
Rest in this present, gifted moment.
I yawn and stretch a little, then settle back into my sprawled rag doll position. Callie does the same.
The sun still blankets my skin.
Sigh, this is nice.
Thursday, January 10, 2019
The Spacious Disciplined Community-filled Vulnerable Communicator
Oh hey there, my blog! Long time, no see.
I've been wanting to write for three months now. Something's been stewing for some time, I just haven't been able to identify what it was...what am I learning, and about what do I actually want to write? If you know me well you know that I'm thinking about a LOT almost CONSTANTLY, so you'd think I'd be well versed in the ability to pinpoint the answers to those questions. I eventually get there, but usually things must steep for quite some time...which can be frustrating to me, and frustrating to others. (Shout out to those few sweet, wonderfully patient, safe people who allow me to verbally figure myself out and listen when to me it feels like a mystical jumble of words. I find that this handful of people has been growing lately, and for that I am filled with gratitude. I appreciate you.)
Jumping right in
Before leaving Chicago for Christmas break in Albuquerque, I posted a picture to Instagram stating that reflections on 'space' were forthcoming: "I've been thinking a lot about space lately...not the final frontier kind, just space to exist, think, create, and be. More on that later". Now is as good a time as any to explore the thoughts that have been percolating over the last semester on space (and beyond) insofar as it applies to the components of creativity.
So, what are the main components of creative expression?
Space
To some degree I believe that the majority of Americans have subjected themselves to endless seasons of ceaseless activity. It is a culture that we have cultivated to our detriment to the point where 'self-care', rest, and 'being' are social movements that have to be taught. Our eyes, necks, and fingers are perpetually plugged into our devices that we do not allow ourselves down time, times of silence, or times of reflection (for it is in these times that we actually begin to confront the larger questions in life - the ones that truly matter, and we're frightened). This perpetuates our feelings of harried-ness, our pressure to be something else, compare our lives, as we grasp for things that we do not currently have, unable to be thankful for what is ours, unable to sprout new thoughts of our own, incapable of being curious, unable to explore. However, when we make room for that space, we can find that uprising from the doldrums of boredom spring new ideas, inquiries, inspiration, and invention. When I am endlessly tired from ceaseless input and activity, I have no energy to create.
I just finished a season of busy harried-ness. While in this season I found myself longing for the space to create, for boredom, and for a blank canvass of time.
Discipline
I finally got that blank canvass of time.
Currently, in a four-week season of 'space', I've had almost literally nothing to do.
(...As far as routine goes. I've made stuff to do...Related side note, there's nothing like not having a schedule for an extended period of time to remind you that humans are meant for work and purpose.)
My break consisted of four weeks. The first week I spent sleeping and getting over altitude sickness. (Albuquerque is over five-thousand feet higher than Chicago.) The second was family focused. The third and fourth have been spent back in Chicago where insomnia and extreme loneliness hit. I've been doing a lot of reading, a lot of podcasting (listening to not making of), a lot of thinking, and a lot of exercising.
And a lot of avoiding. Yup. Avoiding.
Where space is available, there must also be discipline. Without discipline and the decision to just DO something, just START, even with ample space, nothing is created. Whatever your process, whether it's scheduling time to create, or making yourself put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, palm to paintbrush, or breath to vocal-fold, just begin. Your creativity is a blessing waiting to happen, not only for yourself, but for others as well.
Which leads me to...
Community
Creativity is never done in a vacuum. There is nothing truly new under the sun.With the exception of YHWH, who created ex nihilo (out of nothing), we always have something influencing our creativity. YHWH, as the Triune God, Creator out of nothing, Beginner and Originator of all things, created in community with Himself. The Creation account in Genesis 1 makes it clear that the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters, and the first four verses of the first chapter of John clearly state that Jesus was with God in the beginning and through Him everything was made.
Our creations are never solely our own. Yes, we may add a new twist, and of course we offer our own perspective and life experiences to whatever we touch, but we stand on the shoulders of thinkers and creators who have gone before us. We learn from their mistakes, improve on or seek to emulate their successes. We ruminate on their styles, their approaches, their time-period, their socio-economic status, etc., and all these factors (and more) affect our own creations. Our creations are made better because we explore the thoughts of others, while seeking to maintain a desire for growth and understanding, and we express these things through our own works.
Furthermore, creation in community is Truth-seeking. When left to our own devices, holed up in an apartment somewhere for two weeks alone (ahem), our minds tend to turn inward, we become self-focused, navel-gazing, and often depressed...(I wonder who she's talking about?). But when we open ourselves up to community, to the people who love us, and also to the thought processes of those whom we don't understand, we have a broader understanding of knowledge other than our own, of experiences other than our own, and our world becomes a little more we-focused than me-focused.
Our creations are often from a single-person perspective - an expression of something you the creator have been through - but your creation is still not a result of your being the only being in the world. Your creation was shaped by an experience which was most likely caused by other humans in your little world, which is part of the large, messy, beautiful winding tapestry of all humans in the world - community.
This certainly does not mean that every work of art must be done in collaboration. Of course not. I am saying, though, that it is naive to think that our creations are ours alone. We are influenced and shaped by those around us, and we are the better for it.
Furthermore, placing your own creation out in the world for others to see means that is is now part of the influencing sphere. It is available to look at, ponder, hear, agree with, disagree with, touch, hate, love, talk about, discuss...this in of itself can be terrifying, which brings us lastly to...
Vulnerability
Oh vulnerability, you saucy little minx. You seduce us and repel us simultaneously. We're both horrified of and drawn to you. We admire those who've learned to use you well, saying we wish could be more like them, but we also criticize the same, saying, they share too much, they are too much.
For any human the process of creating is one that reveals the inner world of the self. In this way creativity is very raw. It's a grappling with emotions and influences, thoughts, and imagination. Sometimes it's a reconciling of a hurt, of a past, seeking to understand emotions that are still very present. At the time of creation and presentation, the emotions that we focus on are our own. The fear of rejection, of not being good enough, of being weird, of failure, mixed with the fear of not completing something, the fear of not accomplishing a calling, or expressing something well enough, of not doing a feeling or a message justice; these all co-exist in those moments of creation and presentation. But as creators, we have to try.
The dictionary of human emotions is a deep and endless pool which separates and connects us - for though we may not share the exact same emotion stemmed from the exact same situation at the exact same time (separates), we all have some point in time where we can identify a similar emotion (connects). However, the revealing of the self provides opportunity for another to find agreement, and to give voice to their own experience. Vulnerability sows vulnerability. Vulnerability levels humanity on the same playing field. Vulnerability creates opportunity for understanding. In this way vulnerability ties into community. We truly benefit others when we dare to be courageous enough to reveal that which would seem safer to conceal.
Vulnerability is the shaking hand of courage, acknowledging that this 'piece of me' could touch and encourage you, my neighbor.
----------------------------
I'd love to hear your thoughts on these things! Do you consider yourself creative? If not, why? What do you like to create/how do you perform? What is your process? What would you like to create? What are your thoughts on Space, Discipline, Community, and Vulnerability? What might you add to this list? What would you change? Feel free to comment here, or under the Facebook/Instagram post. I'd love to hear from creatives in all art-forms. How have you experienced these things in your creative journey?
Stay tuned for an upcoming post where I'll explore some of the ways that these things have been manifesting themselves in my own journey through the discovery of my voice.
I've been wanting to write for three months now. Something's been stewing for some time, I just haven't been able to identify what it was...what am I learning, and about what do I actually want to write? If you know me well you know that I'm thinking about a LOT almost CONSTANTLY, so you'd think I'd be well versed in the ability to pinpoint the answers to those questions. I eventually get there, but usually things must steep for quite some time...which can be frustrating to me, and frustrating to others. (Shout out to those few sweet, wonderfully patient, safe people who allow me to verbally figure myself out and listen when to me it feels like a mystical jumble of words. I find that this handful of people has been growing lately, and for that I am filled with gratitude. I appreciate you.)
Jumping right in
Before leaving Chicago for Christmas break in Albuquerque, I posted a picture to Instagram stating that reflections on 'space' were forthcoming: "I've been thinking a lot about space lately...not the final frontier kind, just space to exist, think, create, and be. More on that later". Now is as good a time as any to explore the thoughts that have been percolating over the last semester on space (and beyond) insofar as it applies to the components of creativity.
So, what are the main components of creative expression?
Space
To some degree I believe that the majority of Americans have subjected themselves to endless seasons of ceaseless activity. It is a culture that we have cultivated to our detriment to the point where 'self-care', rest, and 'being' are social movements that have to be taught. Our eyes, necks, and fingers are perpetually plugged into our devices that we do not allow ourselves down time, times of silence, or times of reflection (for it is in these times that we actually begin to confront the larger questions in life - the ones that truly matter, and we're frightened). This perpetuates our feelings of harried-ness, our pressure to be something else, compare our lives, as we grasp for things that we do not currently have, unable to be thankful for what is ours, unable to sprout new thoughts of our own, incapable of being curious, unable to explore. However, when we make room for that space, we can find that uprising from the doldrums of boredom spring new ideas, inquiries, inspiration, and invention. When I am endlessly tired from ceaseless input and activity, I have no energy to create.
I just finished a season of busy harried-ness. While in this season I found myself longing for the space to create, for boredom, and for a blank canvass of time.
Discipline
I finally got that blank canvass of time.
Currently, in a four-week season of 'space', I've had almost literally nothing to do.
(...As far as routine goes. I've made stuff to do...Related side note, there's nothing like not having a schedule for an extended period of time to remind you that humans are meant for work and purpose.)
My break consisted of four weeks. The first week I spent sleeping and getting over altitude sickness. (Albuquerque is over five-thousand feet higher than Chicago.) The second was family focused. The third and fourth have been spent back in Chicago where insomnia and extreme loneliness hit. I've been doing a lot of reading, a lot of podcasting (listening to not making of), a lot of thinking, and a lot of exercising.
And a lot of avoiding. Yup. Avoiding.
Where space is available, there must also be discipline. Without discipline and the decision to just DO something, just START, even with ample space, nothing is created. Whatever your process, whether it's scheduling time to create, or making yourself put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, palm to paintbrush, or breath to vocal-fold, just begin. Your creativity is a blessing waiting to happen, not only for yourself, but for others as well.
Which leads me to...
Community
Creativity is never done in a vacuum. There is nothing truly new under the sun.With the exception of YHWH, who created ex nihilo (out of nothing), we always have something influencing our creativity. YHWH, as the Triune God, Creator out of nothing, Beginner and Originator of all things, created in community with Himself. The Creation account in Genesis 1 makes it clear that the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters, and the first four verses of the first chapter of John clearly state that Jesus was with God in the beginning and through Him everything was made.
Our creations are never solely our own. Yes, we may add a new twist, and of course we offer our own perspective and life experiences to whatever we touch, but we stand on the shoulders of thinkers and creators who have gone before us. We learn from their mistakes, improve on or seek to emulate their successes. We ruminate on their styles, their approaches, their time-period, their socio-economic status, etc., and all these factors (and more) affect our own creations. Our creations are made better because we explore the thoughts of others, while seeking to maintain a desire for growth and understanding, and we express these things through our own works.
Furthermore, creation in community is Truth-seeking. When left to our own devices, holed up in an apartment somewhere for two weeks alone (ahem), our minds tend to turn inward, we become self-focused, navel-gazing, and often depressed...(I wonder who she's talking about?). But when we open ourselves up to community, to the people who love us, and also to the thought processes of those whom we don't understand, we have a broader understanding of knowledge other than our own, of experiences other than our own, and our world becomes a little more we-focused than me-focused.
Our creations are often from a single-person perspective - an expression of something you the creator have been through - but your creation is still not a result of your being the only being in the world. Your creation was shaped by an experience which was most likely caused by other humans in your little world, which is part of the large, messy, beautiful winding tapestry of all humans in the world - community.
This certainly does not mean that every work of art must be done in collaboration. Of course not. I am saying, though, that it is naive to think that our creations are ours alone. We are influenced and shaped by those around us, and we are the better for it.
Furthermore, placing your own creation out in the world for others to see means that is is now part of the influencing sphere. It is available to look at, ponder, hear, agree with, disagree with, touch, hate, love, talk about, discuss...this in of itself can be terrifying, which brings us lastly to...
Vulnerability
Oh vulnerability, you saucy little minx. You seduce us and repel us simultaneously. We're both horrified of and drawn to you. We admire those who've learned to use you well, saying we wish could be more like them, but we also criticize the same, saying, they share too much, they are too much.
For any human the process of creating is one that reveals the inner world of the self. In this way creativity is very raw. It's a grappling with emotions and influences, thoughts, and imagination. Sometimes it's a reconciling of a hurt, of a past, seeking to understand emotions that are still very present. At the time of creation and presentation, the emotions that we focus on are our own. The fear of rejection, of not being good enough, of being weird, of failure, mixed with the fear of not completing something, the fear of not accomplishing a calling, or expressing something well enough, of not doing a feeling or a message justice; these all co-exist in those moments of creation and presentation. But as creators, we have to try.
The dictionary of human emotions is a deep and endless pool which separates and connects us - for though we may not share the exact same emotion stemmed from the exact same situation at the exact same time (separates), we all have some point in time where we can identify a similar emotion (connects). However, the revealing of the self provides opportunity for another to find agreement, and to give voice to their own experience. Vulnerability sows vulnerability. Vulnerability levels humanity on the same playing field. Vulnerability creates opportunity for understanding. In this way vulnerability ties into community. We truly benefit others when we dare to be courageous enough to reveal that which would seem safer to conceal.
Vulnerability is the shaking hand of courage, acknowledging that this 'piece of me' could touch and encourage you, my neighbor.
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I'd love to hear your thoughts on these things! Do you consider yourself creative? If not, why? What do you like to create/how do you perform? What is your process? What would you like to create? What are your thoughts on Space, Discipline, Community, and Vulnerability? What might you add to this list? What would you change? Feel free to comment here, or under the Facebook/Instagram post. I'd love to hear from creatives in all art-forms. How have you experienced these things in your creative journey?
Stay tuned for an upcoming post where I'll explore some of the ways that these things have been manifesting themselves in my own journey through the discovery of my voice.
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