Next month I will take part in a presentation on creativity.
This is ironic because the most creative thing I’ve done in weeks is switch out
one of my usually plain outfits with a combination I thought was more modern—a
choice my daughter tactfully suggested I reconsider.
Creativity, according to one author, thrives in messy and
unusual environments, unlike logical, analytical thought that prefers order. But I
beg to differ.
During the months after my father-in law died and our nest
was empty again, I fell into the pleasant routines of walking the dog, writing,
and working at leisure. While luxuriating in so much free time, I signed on to
teach several workshops, all of which are happening this spring.
But empty bedrooms beg occupants as zealously as nature
fills a vacuum. Needing a place to stay while they were selling their house, my
daughter, her husband, and their two dogs moved in. And although we are all
getting on notably well (except for our dog who’s clearly not happy to share
her pack) my ability to hold a thought longer than one sentence long has fled.
It’s an art, I think—that ability to focus in the throes of
interruptions. For example, as I sit here trying to grapple with a thought or
two, my husband comes in, sits down to put his shoes on, and asks if I think
he’d make a good king. I don’t even want to follow up that conversation, so I
roll my eyes and get out another sentence before the guest German shepherd
starts whining to go out, and my daughter comes down and wants to chat.
My first inclination is to blame my inattentiveness on
getting older—a suspicion that was fostered during a recent trip up North.
Since we were arriving at midnight, I booked a room in a hotel that was
supposed to be about a mile from the airport. While we waited for the cab, most
of the other passengers disappeared into the dark, wintery New Hampshire night.
Finally, a tiny yellow car pulled up. The driver hopped out.
Although the wind chill must have been hovering in the teens and snow banks
lined the road, he wore a baseball cap (on backwards), a bulky Bobby Orr hockey
jacket, and shorts. He popped the trunk and directed us to put our luggage on
top of the spare tire and jack occupying the dirty, narrow space.
Another man emerged from the shadows, slid into the front
seat, and we were off. Our driver chatted about this and that—said he “couldn’t
complain about anything because no one would listen anyway.” The man in the
front seat said nothing. We drove out of the airport straight into rural blackness.
No street lights, hotels, diners, or other establishments typically near
airports. Five minutes . . . ten minutes . . .. Not a creature was stirring,
not a speck of light.
Now I begin to wonder. I wonder if I’ve called the right
hotel. I wonder about the silent man in the front seat and the odd driver wearing
shorts on a freezing night. Movies with places like the Bates Motel surface in
my mind. “I thought the hotel was a mile from the airport,” I say.
The backward baseball cap in front of me bobs. “Well, I
guess you could say that—as the crow flies, (ha ha). But there’s no way to get
there directly from here.”
I glanced at Bob and squeezed his hand. Several minutes and
miles later we arrived at the hotel. Relieved it was just a quirky cab ride,
and I hadn’t misread the hotel information in some senile booking moment,
but had, indeed, gotten us a king room at a great price, we took our keys and approached the door, right off the lobby.
The tub-less shower and low hanging closet bars were the
first clues.
I had reserved the elderly-friendly, handicap-accessible
room.
As far as I’m concerned, the jury’s still out whether
creativity thrives in disorder, but this I know: by the grace of God my body
doesn’t need wheel-in showers and low-lying appliances, but my mind needs
order. Hats off to those who can write and think and create while tending children
and fending off distractions.
I love my company and their canines, but I know my limits. So I've walked the dog, kissed the husband, and fled
to library where I hope to create and concentrate in peace and quiet—or, at
least, say hello to those of you stopping by.
Blessings abundant,
Marcia
