Creative energy is a funny thing, and something that's been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I won't set the world on fire with my skills in physics and calculus, but when it comes to creativity, I find that the older I get, the more important it becomes.
In my teens and twenties, it was theatre and crafts. And writing.
In my thirties, it was making our house into a home, and crafts with my daughter. And writing.
Over the next several decades, writing became my primary creative pursuit -- so much so that many of the others faded away. No more counted cross stitch. Or finger painting. Or coloring books — oh, wait -- I do have a few of those.
But I never seem to find time for them.
From time to time, I think about auditioning for a show again, wondering, as I always have, how I'd find the time for rehearsals and all of the additional work that goes into learning lines and songs and blocking and choreography. Not only would some of the time have to come out of my writing time, but, in addition, I fear that my creative energy would be sapped because acting and writing both draw their power from the same source.
Though writing still holds a place of honor in my creative pursuits, the business of writing drains me. Pouring all of my energy into a book is fun when I'm doing it but then, once that work is complete, my control slips away as the final steps in the process depend on decisions made by editors and agents and publishers.
Fortunately, aging has brought me full circle -- or perhaps beyond, if that's possible. Several years ago, when the writing got hard, I began prioritizing creativity over productivity. Unafraid of making mistakes because I was, after all, just playing, I began dabbling in sketchnoting, then sketching/drawing. I wasn't creating anything I wanted to share with the world, and so there was no pressure. Just a playful way of finding a back door into the creativity that seemed to be difficult to access when it came to words on the page.
Then, an article in a newsletter mentioned trash (think office trash, not kitchen trash) collage, and I rediscovered the love of an art form I'd played with in high school and college. Using words and images clipped from magazines, I began playing with color, size, placement, texture, and depth, working first on one collage at a time, then on multiple collages, each with a theme of its own, most likely clear only to me.
For most of my life, I never thought of myself as artistic. I can sing and act, and I can write, but those were the extent of my creative capabilities.
Or so I thought.
The beauty of art for art's sake is that it doesn't have to be perfect. Collaging and sketching and experimenting with lettering relax me. And, since I'm doing all these things for an audience of one, they can be lovely, flawed, or a complete disaster because it's the making that matters. And the making is entirely (and literally) in my hands, which is a great counterbalance to the business end of writing in which I currently find myself.
It's funny, actually. I think I've grown more cautious overall as I've gotten older but, when it comes to creative expression, the opposite is true. I keep finding more things to dabble in, and the more I dabble, the more I trust my eye, and the less I care about the opinions of others. And that last one is a brand new experience for me.
Where do you dabble? In the garden? In the kitchen? With words, paints, music, or clay? With clothing or wall coverings or needle and thread? Wherever you do it and whatever tools you use, I hope you can do it playfully and lose yourself in it in a way that refreshes you.
One main reason that adulting is overrated is because we no longer prioritize play. Interestingly (to me, at least) is that the older I get, the more I realize that's exactly what matters.
