Spring Cleaning, Golden Threads, and Water

It’s that time of year again…spring looms on the horizon, and it’s inspiring me to clean out closets, drawers, and sort those random stacks of papers that seem to accumulate somehow during the droll months of winter.

I love ‘spring cleaning’. It’s so refreshing to purge through one’s things, to discard what is no longer needed. Not only do I love the Feng Shui feeling of open spaces in my closet and no stacks of paper on the floor, but I like the fact that I am clearing room for new things to come into my life. Let’s face it, we all like new stuff. But my home is small, and the rule is, if something comes in, something else must go out. It’s an easy rule to follow, once you get into the habit.

So I’m going through my closet with gusto, thinking of all the space I am clearing out for the new spring fashions, when I see the dress. Technically, it’s new, because I haven’t worn it yet. It’s a long black tank style dress with a gold lacey overlay. Tassels hang from the bottom hem, and the matching gold lace shawl is draped over the hanger. And there are strappy shiny new black high heels with gold buckles somewhere in this closet as well. Still in the box, tag still attached. The dress, you see, is a dancing dress. The shoes are made for dancing. I find them in their box, and sit down on the floor, removing the lid slowly. They are so shiny I can see my own reflection in their black patent leather sides.

Do I go out dancing? No, not really. Not in a very long time, at least. I bought this outfit for a very special occasion I thought would occur in April. A night out with someone I was so looking forward to seeing again. This outfit, with the dress, shoes and shawl, were not a cheap ensemble. But some things are worth the extra bit of elegance. However, that special occasion isn’t going to happen now. I’ve found that even the best laid plans can be like sandcastles on the seashore. No matter how grand your construction, the tide can come in an instant and wash it all away the minute your back is turned. There is one simple fact of life concerning any plan that involves more than one person to complete: people can change. The minute you turn your back, the sincerest of words can be washed away, like drawings on the seashore at high tide. A little water on your toes, a rush, a wave, and then…nothing.

The gold of the dress reminds me of sand, and the sea, and what lies beyond it. I stand for a moment, my ‘give away’ clothes bag at my feet, wondering what I should do with the dress and shoes. I’d forgotten they were here, and yet, on some deeper level, I remembered. A woman doesn’t forget buying a dancing dress. She doesn’t forget the way gold lace shimmers, or the way the shoes felt she tried them on. She doesn't forget the smile of the man she planned to go dancing with, or how his voice sounded to her ears. We don't forget these things, no...we just try to put it out of our minds. And then, we see the dress...

I could go out dancing anyway. I could easily get a group of friends to go. It might be fun. But truth is, I can hardly bear the thought of that. It’s nowhere near the original plan that I had when I bought the dress, and as fun as it might be, it would only be substitute. And I don’t believe in substituting one plan, one dream, or one life for another. So I carefully put the top back on the shoes and take the dress down from its hanger. I fold it slowly, and place the shawl on top. I’m a bag re-user, so it’s just a short trip to the hall closet to find the bag from the store the dress was purchased at. I’m also a receipt saver. Even though it’s been a couple of months, the store graciously accepts the return. I walk out of the shop, a hefty sum of cash in hand, a mixed feeling in my soul. I could do a lot with this money. The dress and shoes were, after all, top-of-the-line. But taking them back was acknowledging that the evening I’d so looked forward to is not going to happen. I’m not sure I was ready, really, to accept that loss of hope. Hope is the life-raft we cling to when feeling adrift in the sea of someone else’s choices. But that type of hope only keeps us afloat for so long. At some point, we have to come ashore…or drown.

I take the money and go to a salon. I have my hair cut and colored. A radical change from the dark tresses I was born with to a soft, honey tone, a light golden brown, like the gold lace of the dress that is no longer mine; the gold buckle on a shoe I’ll never wear; the gold of sand along the seashore; the golden thread that still binds my heart to a dream I don't want to let go of. Like Penelope of ancient lore, I toil at the loom by day, weaving golden threads into a tapestry that will never be completed, waiting for someone who, for all practical purposes, is lost at sea. By night I dream of the three fates, of making them my allies, for they alone possess the secret tool to cut the golden thread that binds one world to another.

The beach is only a few hours drive from my home. The sun is a golden disc high in the sky, the sea still too cool, really, to lose one’s self within, but I have no self left to lose, so I stand with my toes in the sand, shoes in hand, looking out over the water. It seems endless, but it has an end, I know. I’ve been to the other side. I’ve stood on a foreign coast and looked back towards where I am now. I thought the coming of summer would take me back there again, just as I thought I’d wear the dress to go dancing on a warm night in April. But the tide washes away what is written in only in sand to begin with. Maybe Robert Frost was right when he said nothing gold can stay.

I set down my shoes and wade into the ocean slowly, my body instantly reacting to the water’s chill. But I’ve been in colder waters, so as soon as it reaches my knees, I dive forward, swimming out, letting it wash over me completely. If warm water is relaxing, then cold is purifying. I dive forward again, going deeper this time. I let the water wash over my hair. It falls into my face, strands of gold shining in the sun. I think of the dress, how it would have shimmered beneath the lights, how the shoes would have sounded on hardwood floors. I dive under again. For something new to come in, something old must go out. It is the only way.

There are many forms of spring cleaning.

A Valentine's Message of Love by guest writer Justin Blackburn

A Valentine’s Day Message of Love for Everyone
by guest writer and poet, Justin Blackburn

I would like to thank you for being here with me, with everyone here on this strange, dramatic, and beautiful planet, during this charming Valentine’s Day dedicated solely to the expression of love. What a wonderful thing to do, to take a single day and celebrate love!

But what is love? And why are we only supposed to celebrate it once a year? And why does it come on February 14th?

Now I could tell you the story of the many St. Valentine’s and good ol Pope Gelasuis but basically we celebrate Valentine’s Day because someone said to and most of us do what we are told. So imagine if we were told to celebrate love everyday! Imagine if we were told not only to celebrate the love of our significant others, but the love we have for everything… mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, grandparents, strangers, trees, birds, dogs, sunsets, clouds, poetry, films, oxygen etc. Imagine how much love would fill our hearts and dazzle our minds on a daily basis! Imagine how satiated, how happy we would all be together!

So right now I am going to do you and myself a favor, I am going to call myself St. Justin and I am going to declare everyday for the rest of everyone’s lives, Love Day, and I am inviting everyone in the world to celebrate love every single day they are alive! Cause let’s be honest, what are we all searching for? What is the great mystery that we are all doing our best to find? What is the reason we are all still surviving? Simple, it is love. Love! Love! Love! Beautiful, heartfelt, feel it in the soul, hear it in the spirit, praise it in the mind, perfectly divine all the time, love! Love is what created us! Love is what is evolving us into a state of love!

It is easy too think we want money, fancy cars, popularity, accomplishments, notoriety, etc. but what if we all felt loved, what if we all knew in our hearts we were fully loved by everyone all the time, do you think we would still want what it is we think we want? Or do you think we would be satisfied simply by being ourselves and we would not feel forced to find outside images to define us in order to make ourselves feel better? No big deal, just think about, and as you think it about do your best to feel your love because what makes us happier than love? Nothing.

I would like to thank you for reading my Valentine’s Day message and I hope I follow my own advice and I celebrate my love and your love everyday for the rest of my life because I know in my heart of hearts where I was born and how badly I desire to go back there. Thank you. I love you.

Justin Blackburn Visit Justin Blackburn’s website at www.justinblackburnlovesyou.com

Join Justin Blackburn’s facebook groups:

Everyone Loves Each Other
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=42656181858&ref=ts

Justin Blackburn Writes Things Down
http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/group.php?gid=118813628400

This article, and many more, can be seen at www.thump-greenwood.com

A Valentine's Message of Love

Guest Writer, Fred Bassett

This week's blog features a column and poetry by guest writer, author and poet, Fred Bassett.

One of the most compelling topics for poets throughout the ages has been passionate, romantic love. Among the many different types of books of the Bible, for example, there is an extraordinary collection of lyrical poetry which the translators of the King James Version entitled The Song of Solomon. Although the original Hebrew text does not have a title, they gave it one based on the tradition that the lyrics were written by King Solomon. More appropriately, recent English translations entitle the book, The Song of Songs, based on the opening phrase of the text. In the Hebrew language such expressions as “the song of songs” and “the king of kings” are superlatives, meaning “the best song” and “the best king.”

And what is the best song according to this text? It is the song of love ─ that passionate pulling of two people toward a new whole. The love lyrics of this little book, however, proved problematic for both the early Jewish community and the early Christian community. Both communities tended to interpret the lyrics allegorically as expressions of spiritual love between God and the religious community. According to this interpretation, the male speaker is God and the female speaker is Israel or the Church. Other interpreters read them allegorically as expressions of the mystical love between God and the individual.

Modern scholars have rightly concluded, however, that these love lyrics were expressions of passionate love between woman and man. Originally, they were likely oral poems recited at wedding festivals.

What is most striking to me about these lyrics is the bold, aggressive love found in the female voice. Nothing demure or reticent here. Since February brings us Valentine’s Day, I’d like to share four of the seventeen poems that I arranged from the Hebrew text. In 2002, Paraclete Press published them in a little book, Love: the Song of Songs, with illustrations by Valenti Angelo. The poems alternate with the titles “SHE” and “HE” to indicate the speaker.


SHE
As an apple tree among
the trees of the forest,
so my beloved
is distinguished among men.
I sat in his shadow
with great delight,
and his fruit was sweet.
He brought me
to the banquet hall
and showered me with love.
Strengthen me with raisins,
refresh me with apples,
for I am faint with love.
Oh, that his left hand
were under my head,
and that his right hand
caressed me!
I warn you fair maidens,
do not stir up or awaken love
before its time.


HE
Oh, that you would set me as a seal
upon your heart,
or as a seal upon your arm.
For love is strong as death,
passion as unyielding as the grave.
It flashes like fire,
like a raging flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it.


SHE
Awake, O north wind,
and come, O South wind!
Blow upon my garden
that its fragrance
may be carried abroad.
Let my beloved come
to his garden,
and eat its exquisite fruits.
Awake, O north wind,
and come, O south wind!
For I am my beloved’s,
and his desire is for me.


HE
My love is an enclosed garden
with gushing fountain.
She is a luxuriant garden
with abundant fruit and spices.
I will go to my garden;
I will gather my myrrh
with my spice.
I will eat my honeycomb
with my honey;
I will drink my wine
with my milk.
Until the day breaks
and the shadows flee,
I will revel
on the mountain of myrrh.

I’ll conclude The Poet’s Corner with a poem about my first love, long before I met my true love, my wife for 55 years. Our first love teaches us something significant about ourselves. I decided, therefore, to contrast my experience with that of the British poet, George Wither, who takes a very cavalier attitude in his poem, “The Lover’s Resolution:”

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman’s fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
‘Cause another’s rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads of May─
If she be not for me
What care I how fair she be?
And so, the poet goes on for several more verses, all with the same refrain. My experience was totally different, so I address George Wither directly in the poem.
To George Wither on Love
How clever you were George Wither
never to anguish over love,
to control your heart like a logician
doing dry proofs in a cloistered study,
to care or not to care for any woman
with a rational switch in your mind.
I, not so prepared for Ann McMurphy,
embraced her love with total abandon,
assuming the clocks were set for life.
But she, with a consumer's taste,
left me bobbing like an apple core
in the wake of her thirteenth summer.
Unable to topple its golden idol,
my dumb heart waited for her mythic return
as the years slipped slowly toward manhood.
Oh, you were clever George Wither
to shield yourself from such a woman,
and yet I marvel that I do not envy you.


Visit Fred on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=1466537438
View this article, and many more, online at http://www.thump-greenwood.com/

The Persistence of Red

It’s a typical Sunday afternoon. My son is upstairs with a friend, painting a cardboard playhouse. I’m downstairs tapping away on the computer, struggling to meet a weekend deadline. Every so often I call my son’s name, and in response I hear a giggle or a laugh float down the stairs.

As a mother, especially the mother of a boy, I try not to hover. Still, the lack of running, stomping, or jumping noises that usually accompany my son’s play finally become too much for me to bear. Taking a break from writing, I am about to head upstairs when the doorbell rings. It’s the mother of my son’s friend, and because she is also a friend of mine, we stand chatting in the hall for sometime before I notice her gaze drift over my shoulder. Her eyes widen as I hear the sound of my son laughing behind me. I turn to see him standing shirtless on the stairs, grinning from ear to ear, the entirety of his torso, arms and back painted bright blue. His face is red with blue accents, and there is blue paint smeared into his hair. His friend stands behind him, paintbrush in hand, with just as big of a smile on his face.

I don’t know what to say, honestly, only that this isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been caught off guard by color. My son is a very imaginative child, and also a lucky one, because I’m not the type of parent who goes off the deep end over the things like this. I have lived long enough to realize the difference in a real emergency and a minor inconvenience. A quick shower, a change of clothes and a wet rag to remove the blue handprints from the stairway, and all is back to normal…or something like it.

Color has a way of surprising us sometimes; of making us stop and reconsider the way we look at things. I never could have imagined that my son would stroll downstairs that afternoon looking like an extra from the cast of Avatar, just as I never could have imagined the birch forests of Finland until I stood before them and allowed my eyes, so used to seeing trees in black or brown, adjust to the sight of rows and rows of white trunks stretching to the sky. A change of color challenges our perspectives. If you don’t believe this, go paint one of the rooms in your house a completely different shade than it currently is, and see if you don’t feel just a bit differently when you step inside.

But the absence of color can also have a profound affect on the spirit. The dull skies of winter can seep into our psyche; make us feel heavy and leaden somehow. We muddle through January in a grey daze, then February comes, and we rejoice at the sight of the blue sky above us and purple crocus peeking up through the grass. We know these things mean spring is coming, and with it, the rainbow of shades that have been missing for so long. Winter, for all practical purposes, is a black and white season, the only real color being the occasional sighting of a red cardinal on bare branches.

This brings me to red, the most dominant color in the rainbow. Red is the color of the life-blood that pulses within us, of the sash that angers the matador’s bull, of signs that tell us over and over again to ‘STOP’. I don’t wear red, because it’s much too fierce a statement for me to make with clothes. I have a few accessories in red, but for the most part, I shy away from this shade. Red is strong, independent, and assertive, traits that both sexes possess, but girls are far too often taught to subdue. Growing up, there was always some adult reigning in my personality, reminding me there were different expectations for girls, which mostly centered on being quiet and passive. Red is neither quiet nor passive. As a child, it was my favorite shade, but there would come a time I would associate red with things I wanted to forget. I would put it out of my mind, out of my wardrobe, out of my life.

But red is fierce. It does not go quietly into the night. I open a new knitting book and the first project is an Isis stole in red. I’m given a gift by a dear friend of bright red earrings. And, at my monthly poetry meeting, we each write a phrase down on paper and put it into a bag. The assignment is to create a poem based on the words you choose. It’s my turn, and I slip my hand into the bag and pull out a piece of paper. I look down at the words I’ve chosen, and I almost laugh out loud, for my phrase is “the color of red.”

Colors have meaning, symbolism, and special places in our souls. We all have personal connections and associations with colors, and these thoughts and feelings are as unique as we are. Think of a color that is a favorite of yours and write about it. Or better yet, choose a color you dislike, and use it as a subject for a journal entry or a poem. Write not only about the color itself, but what it is that draws you to it, or makes you feel compelled to turn away from it. This is a very simple poetry/writing exercise that can yield delightful results and growth. Sometimes all we need to get going is just the right prompt!

Happy writing!

The Persistence of Red

The only promise they ever made
to one another
was not to disappear.

And so it was the only one broken.

He disappeared completely
leaving behind
a trail
of red words.
………………………….

“You are the least colorful artist
I’ve ever known,” she remembers a friend
saying.
She surveys her wardrobe
filled with grey and black and white
and knows her friend is right.
But how can she tell anyone
that the colors
all disappeared
when he did?

Except for one, of course.
Red.
The color of love.
The color of pain.
The color of trust,
broken.

She sits before the easel now
and dips a brush into the
deepest black.
She layers it over
the color of red,
but it persists in her memory,
just like his last words to her.

She persists as well.

Gazing at the red before her
she dips the brush into black once more
and wonders if persisting
leads to healing.

…………………………..

View this article, and many others, at http://www.thump-greenwood.com/

To Be, Or Not To Be, BOLD

A dear friend asked me once what I wanted from life, and I didn’t have a clear answer to give her. After all, it’s an open ended question, bound to have different answers at different times of one’s life. But I know I need to give her a response, and so I think about it for a moment.

What do I want from life?

And the answer comes like waves crashing into the shore: I want to be bold.

Well, that may not make a lot of sense initially, but think about it for a second…what does being bold really mean? Taking a brave step? Going out on a limb? Or just facing up to a nasty neighbor who insists on using his leaf blower to redecorate your lawn? Boldness is a way of life, unlike bravery and courage, which are typically attributes that we can all call upon ourselves to have from time to time. Boldness is living fiercely, taking risks, and making sure that the adventure of our life is never, ever typical.

I was introduced recently to the ancient myth of Ariadne and Theseus, famous lovers from Ancient Greek mythology, and their story is one of boldness…mainly Ariadne’s boldness, and Theseus’ lack of it. I’m trying to decide if it’s a sad or happy tale, and like many Greek myths, it appears in a variety of forms, with different endings. But after doing a little research, I found the one most common telling of the tale goes as follows: Ariadne was a special young woman who possessed an ability to defeat the Minotaur, who lived at the center of a labyrinth. Her secret was a ball of yarn, red yarn, a special fiber used to find one’s way out of a labyrinth that no one had ever escaped alive. But the labyrinth belonged to her family, the minotaur was her half brother. She never thought to use her gift, until she saw Theseus.

He’d come to slay the Minotaur, and when the duskily beautiful Ariadne first cast her black eyes onto the handsome, fair-headed warrior, she was in love. She knew that even if Theseus defeated the Minotaur, he would never find his way out of the ever-changing labyrinth, and thus, she changed history by being bold enough to take the chance of helping the handsome Athenian. She knew if she were discovered assisting him, she’d be cast out of her family, never to be allowed to return to her homeland, possibly even killed. She knew the risks, but Ariadne also knew what it meant to love another person completely. And so she shared with Theseus the magic of the red fiber, and he defeated the Minotaur and found his way out of the labyrinth.

Theseus pledged love to Ariadne and took her away with him when he sailed from Crete back to his home in Athens. But it was a long journey, and Theseus began to have second thoughts along the way. He began to fear the reaction of his fellow Athenians if he pulled ashore with this dark foreigner. He was a prince, after all. It could create trouble in his kingdom to have a Creten bride. Despite his affection for Ariande, he began to believe that his life would be simpler without her in it. And so Theseus took the easy, albeit cruel, way out. He pulled his ship ashore on the island of Dia, telling the lovely Ariadne to take a nap on the shore while he checked on the ship. And while she was sleeping, Theseus set sail for Athens. He never returned.

There are differerent versions of what happened next…but the one I use here tells that Ariadne woke up, realized Theseus was gone, and was devastated. She couldn’t believe that this man, whom she had loved and risked so much for, would abandon her so coldly without an explanation. She spent days, weeks, and then months watching the shore, waiting to see the sail of her beloved’s ship. But of course, it never came. She was sad for a long, long time, but then one day, she summoned the same boldness that had given her courage to love and save Theseus and applied that to her own life. She made a new home on the island of Dia, learned the native language and customs as easily as she would have in Athens, and began to be a happy, productive member of Dian society. She still watched the sea, however, and one day she saw a ship’s mast looming on the horizon. Her heart soared…but it wasn’t Theseus who pulled into shore. It was the dashing and truly bold Dionysis, who took one look at her and saw all the wonderful attributes Theseus had seen but not been bold enough to claim. And Ariadne saw in Dinoysis a true adventurer of spirit, someone whose boldness matched her own, a man who wasn’t intimidated by a woman’s strength, but instead, reveled in it.

And what became of Theseus? Oh, he had a pretty good life, I suppose. He returned home and fell into typical patterns for a young prince of his day. He would become king through his birth, not by his own doing. He wasn’t as lucky in love as Ariadne, for he would never again find someone who loved him the way that she had. He’d marry twice and be betrayed by each wife. Ariadne would become immortal through her marriage to Dionysis, who was actually a God. When she was slain, he was bold enough to brave the underworld to bring her back, and further bold enough to take her then to live on Mount Olympus, home of the Gods.

Well, it’s a nice tale to mull over, isn’t it? What Ariadne did for Theseus showed a far greater courage and strength than he possessed, and most likely, he knew this. It can be very intimidating for a man who considers himself strong to realize his woman's courage far exceeds his own. Whether or not this was true with these two lovers, Ariadne would survive Theseus' betrayal using the same strength that had enabled her to love him enough to risk everything. She could have let the hurt of his betrayal destroy her, just as we can all choose to let pain destroy us, but she didn’t. She rose above what he had done, and in his absence she began to see him for what he really was: A fair and handsome man full of sweet words and bravado, but lacking in the end the one characteristic most important to her in a partner: Boldness. It would be months before she would meet the wildly charismatic Dionysis on the very shores where Theseus had dumped her, but when she did meet him, she’d finally be face to face with a man whose strength and courage matched her own.

But even if she hadn’t met Dionysis, Ariadne would have been okay. She’d have still had a fulfilling life because she was a survivor. She did not take the easy way out. She took risks. She sometimes lost. But she rose up to face the challenges life cast upon her, because she was a bold and courageous woman. Left alone to cry on an island, she didn’t let that experience keep her from eventually finding her feet on Mount Olympus.

There are a million versions of these ancient myths to be found, you might easily find this tale told in a variety of ways, but I use this version here to illustrate the fact that we never know what life is going to throw our way, who is going to abandon us, and who is going to find us after that. But there is one thing to be sure of…there are those who preserve towards a dream, and those who simply talk themselves out of dreaming and settle for whatever comes their way, because that is, of course, easier. And so there are those who are bold, and those who are not, and who waver somewhere in-between.

What do I want the most out of life? I take a deep breath, and I turn to my friend.

“I want to be bold, always,” I respond. Even when I’m watching for sails on the horizon.

Let it all unravel...:-)

I’m an avid knitter, but yarn is expensive for this artist-poet-writer-teacher’s purse. So I've taught myself how to unravel sweaters and recycle the yarn to make new things. I had heard of workshops on this but they aren’t free, and I thought, heck, how hard can it really be? And so I bought some 50 cent sweaters at a thrift store one day and gave it a try. After all, I’ve unraveled and re-structured my own life enough times that I should be able to unravel a simple garment, right?

Well, it's exciting to learn something new, to see the reverse structuring of a sweater, which I haven't been brave enough to try to knit yet, and also it's soothing, very calming to the mind. I can do it anywhere - while my son plays, while I wait on the kettle to boil for tea, while I sit at night and wait for that elusive thing called sleep to finally come...and when I finished unraveling my first sweater, I had what amounted to about 5 skeins of yarn, for only 50 cents and a few hours effort. And I also had the pleasure of knowing I'd done something productive in time that could have just been spent idle.

Well, I was unraveling a sweater at a cafe the other day when a stranger approached and asked me what I was doing. When I explained to her that I was taking the sweater apart to reuse the yarn, she seemed aghast, almost offended somehow. "Why on earth would you do that, it was a nice sweater," she said, basically meaning 'why try to make better what already seems to be pretty good?' I thought about this...yes, the sweater was nice as it was, but do we always have to settle for things as they are? If something is already nice, does that mean we shouldn’t aspire to better it somehow? I explained to her that it was a whole process, and that I wanted to learn the skill not only for financial reasons, but also because there is a personal pleasure in creating something, in taking this 'nice' thing someone else made (or more likely a machine made), unraveling it, and creating something new, something that is your own, that's not to be found on a store rack by the dozens, but is a direct product of your own mind and vision. "You mean you're going to make a sweater? How?" She asked. I explained to her that I like to knit, and once again her eyebrows furrowed. "Why on earth would anyone in today's world spend time unraveling a sweater, then knit a new one when stuff is not really that expensive to buy? You must just have loads of free time," She said, shaking her head. Then her order was up and she was out the door, not even a second glance back in my direction. I was left with her words hanging in the air. And I wondered for a moment, why am I doing this? And that being said, why am I doing any of the things that I do? Why does anyone do – or not do – a creative thing?

This lady was, most likely, a person who had never actually made anything other than dinner since childhood. Most likely she did not know the joy of finishing a creative personal project, whether it was a painting, a poem, a knitted garment, a refurbished automobile or a coffee table made by hand. She did not know the peace and clarity that comes to the mind from spending time doing something one loves. And unfortunately, so many people in the world are this way...they associate creativity with having loads of free time, and why make anything that can be bought? Why bother to write a poem when you could just buy a Hallmark card? And take it a step further, why bother at all to think deeply or soul search when hey, we have cable television to watch, and that is much more interesting than anything that could come out of our own heads! We're overworked, we're tired, we don't want to do anything else that might take thinking or effort...and so we tune in to television and tune out our lives, putting off what would most heal and nourish us in order to blindly rip through our days, taking our pleasures from outside sources and never realizing that we can so easily tap into our own spirit to find real joy.

Sometimes it can sting, this rejection of the creative by other people. It makes you feel like people think you are less than them somehow. I had a friend make fun of me for hosting a knitting group at my house on Saturday nights. “You’re like a bunch of old ladies or something, sitting around of a Saturday night knitting,” he said with a laugh. “But what do you do on Saturday nights?” I asked. He shrugged. “Go out to the bar with the guys, or just watch television.” Ah, yes, the productive things in life that bring real joy, going to a bar or watching television. “And how is that working for you, is it bringing you happiness?” I asked, and he looked at me blankly and responded, “What do you mean?”

There are just going to always be people like my friend and the lady in the cafe, people who will choose to mock the creative, because they’ve never seen the value of doing anything deep, anything below the surface or beyond the obvious. But in the end, the lives we create for ourselves depend solely on the effort that we make to be a participant, not just an observer. I'm not saying that everyone needs to have a creative hobby to be happy, but it certainly does help. It gives you a connection with yourself, what you can do, what you are capable of. It helps you be a better person, because most creative things are done in a sort of solitude that gives you time to think and process what is happening in your life. I associate every thing I create with what I was feeling at the time that I created it. Even things I knit. And so I'll forever associate the yarn harvested from that sweater with the lady in the café asking me why on earth I’d make an effort to do something creative, when it could, so easily, just be bought? And I’ll send up a silent wish for her, and for my friend, and for everyone who seems to cruise along on the sidelines of life without ever really jumping in…I hope that you never unravel.


Beautiful Woman

So…I am not your idea of beautiful?

I am
soft curves,
braids in a hand-knit cap,
goofy earrings for the fun of it,
tangerine polish on my toes

You want
hard edges,
teased, tortured hair,
diamonds for the expense of it,
acrylic inserts on top of real nails.

So…I am not your idea of a woman?

I am
independent,
strong as the trees that I hug,
secure in my abilities,
whole.

You like
dependence.
Strength is your role.
Security is yours to provide.
Nothing without you.

So…I am not your idea of a beautiful woman?
So what?
I am my idea of me.

This article, and many more, can also be found at www.thump-greenwood.com, the Greenwood area's leading magazine on arts and entertainment.