“I’m not very creative” doesn’t work. There’s no such thing as creative people and non-creative people. There are only people who use their creativity and people who don’t. Unused creativity doesn’t just disappear. It lives within us until it’s expressed, neglected to death, or suffocated by resentment and fear.
It’s another beautiful day. I take my junk draft manuscript outside, plant myself on the bench in the sunshine, and—with pen in hand—start reading, marking up, and making notes.
Transported, I barely notice when Gerry comes home. He joins me on the bench and tells me about the “scramble” he’s just back from (a scramble, as opposed to a hike, is a crazy rough terrain climbing adventure). We chat for a few minutes, then the weary outdoorsman heads inside for a shower and a rest, and I head to another area in the yard to catch some sun.
I spend an hour or so in another world in the depths of the manuscript before I see a sweet little Yorkie heading my way with my now-rested husband trailing behind her.
“I’m ready to go to the garden anytime you are,” he says. I close the manuscript reluctantly, and resume my place in real life.
I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.
It’s my intention to spend a good number of days like this over the summer—outside, manuscript and pen in hand, physically enjoying the warm weather, mentally in that sweet space of creative word magic.
Also looking for magic through the lens of my camera.
Also in the garden where magic grows and the Divine speaks.
Also in the canning kitchen, that magical busy place where my mind churns in a different space while my body works to preserve the season’s bounty.
Watching, listening, and creating.
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Sunshine on a quilt.
Bare feet on grass.
Sleeping with the window open.
The finches birdsong.