A Short Story
I’m sitting here in the overstuffed chair in my living room, sipping my coffee. While I lean into the green and white checkered upholstery, the child artist within says, “I wanna write.”
I ignore the voice and continue down the path of my thoughts. It’s quiet in these dark morning hours. I want to sip my coffee and think deep thoughts.
My adult mind is cluttered with worries. Relationships, politics, responsibilities, the future unknown.
“I wanna write! Can I have a pencil?”
I have to think things through. There’s no sense in writing if you haven’t thought long and hard about some deep, serious things.
“And some paper? Can I have that Sharpwriter pencil? The yellow one with the spinning end? And the sparkly notebook? Can I write now? I wanna write now.” The child voice is insistent.
It’s Creativity dancing at the door of my mind.
Creativity doesn’t care about the seriousness of my thoughts. She only wants to touch them and play with them and toss them onto a page.
I guard my thoughts like the curator of a museum. Each thought has its place of equal importance, roped off with a prominent, “DO NOT TOUCH” sign displayed.
I know Creativity. She doesn’t take anything seriously. When I let go of her hand, she charges in to the most intriguing thoughts. Under the rope, she bolts and touches every crease and line of my sacred thought collection.
Creativity runs her hands over my preconceived ideas and pokes her fingers into my emotions before I have time to pull her back.
Everything is wonderful and mesmerizing and awe inspiring to Creativity.
From thought to thought, idea to idea, worry to worry, she runs. Laughing at the seriousness, dancing past the boundaries, and giving equal irreverence to each thought on display.
Until, finally, there’s one that makes her stop. It’s small, tender and timid, hiding in the shadows.
Creativity focuses and gently coaxes out this thought that was too shy to be on display. She’s transfixed.
“Can I keep it?” She asks as she cradles the thought in her arms. The thought that I was too scared to think.
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll share my pencil with it,” she promises.
Creativity is wild. And Creativity is sensitive. She’s innocent and driven by love. Some thoughts are wild pony rides that she joyously grabs hold of. Other thoughts are fearful kittens, lost with no home.
If I give Creativity a pencil and allow her to keep my thought, it will make me uncomfortable for a time. But, if I don’t, that small kitten of a thought will grow into an untamed tiger and consume all my other thoughts and make Creativity hide in fear.
Yes. You can keep it. Use my pencil. Here’s my notebook. Be gentle. Take good care of my thoughts and my things.
Creativity transforms with a pencil in her hand. She’s sophisticated and eloquent. She’s focused and graceful. She gladly accepts the pencil and paper and begins to write love letters while soothing and cuddling my little fears.
Meanwhile, I refill my coffee cup and go back to sipping, relaxed and with peace of mind.
Creativity is a child. She has no direction of her own or plans for the future. She doesn’t want to grow up. She just wants to play and learn and discover and have adventures.
The artist becomes blocked when she tells her creativity to grow up. What is your child artist asking to do?