Yesterday, I was listening to this podcast and I was inspired to go through boxes in my basement. Bins that are labeled "Kerin's Keepsakes", "Kerin's Stuff Fragile", "Kerin Wedding", and "Kerin Photos". I vaguely knew what was in them but not entirely. Between last night and this morning, I picked up each item and made a decision. I narrowed from four overstuffed bins to one. Some things I threw away, some I donated, and some really important items moved from being stashed in a box to actually being displayed in my house. Pretty awesome.
I also found something I wrote. I don't know when I wrote it. My guess is a year or two after college. I used to create things like this as an exercise against writer's block. I showed it to Nick and he said I should put it on my blog. Why not? What strikes me about the piece is my relationship with Creativity. It seems to be doing much better these days. But like anything that close to my heart, I'll always worry.
Bring to Life
Out of practice. I can only hope that the imagination which brought me so far as a child is able to be revived. I hope it is not too late to pull out the paddles and resuscitate. Creativity lies on the operating table: split open and spilling, spreading across the floor, creating a mess. I hover above it and try to recognize my old friend. I wonder how I let it get this far. I press down hard, waiting for a response. Nothing. I look at the screen searching for hope, waiting for a flicker to tell me- "you've still got it." Nothing. I try again.
If it is gone, then what?
Creativity has been such a dear friend. All of the make-pretend games as a child, the fantasies, the dreams, and most importantly- the stories. When I needed an escape, I merely had to let my fingers fall. A-S-D-F-J-K-L-;. Squint my eyes and lightly move my lips. It was my secret recipe. Stir well and wait for my friend to tip-toe across the screen. I feel a surge of desperation as Creativity codes, right there in front of me. And although I am supposed to be the one in charge, the one controlling the room and the outcome; in this moment I feel helpless.
What would the obituary read? What for my love of writing and Creativity have I to show? A collection of work- finished and pressed- not quite.
So I approach the computer like a forgotten friend. I ask forgiveness and I type away. Line by line, I write blurbs of meaningless thought. But the letters are coming and it's more than I could ask for after such an extended break. "I did not forget you", I whisper as Creativity takes a tiny breath, so light and so short I almost miss it.
I press again and remember so many late nights. A spark would fill my fingers and I would fight off sleep just to type. The minutes tick by and all my thoughts meld and before I can try to piece them together, they are on the screen- unedited and exposed because that's how they fell. And I leave them just as they are. I used to think that somebody guided my words, that a visitor came to my screen while I slept and made my sentences flow better than I ever could.
I know if and when my sweet Creativity wakes up there will be lots of questions, mainly my reasons for not visiting. I do not have an answer. I guess I needed time for a break. Creativity would understand as long as it knew that I will not completely give up that younger version. The one that sat with words playing on her tongue until the room began getting light. I never want that to not be a part of who I am. I never want to let it go.