Grace for the outlet

On my kitchen table sits a brown wicker basket overflowing with coloring books, sticker pads and loose construction paper.  The table cloth is always stained with crumbs like the sand that follows you home after a trip to the beach.  My daughter's heinously ugly plastic place mats with Disney characters that attempt to keep the stains in check mark the two places she likes to eat.  I often get stressed out just looking at this table.  I miss the days of crisp tablecloths that didn't get pulled higgly piggly, topped with a table runner and a vase of flowers.  But this table is full of so much life.  It's the real center of our day.

I keep a stack of cook books from the library on our table.  I pick big, thick ones with lots of gorgeous pictures and recipes that stand somewhere between traditional and outside of the box.  I love to read these while I eat.  I'm not a meal planner or even much of a recipe follower.  I try.  For practical and creative reasons, it's just not me.  But I take crazy amounts of inspiration from a great cook's book.  I love to be introduced to new flavors and make them my own. 

When I was a child I drew and painted.  I had sketch books full of studies on drawing dogs.  I decorated my room with paint by numbers.  My grandpa encouraged me to move onto to pastels and gave me real, artist quality watercolor tubes and brushes.  Gosh, I can feel the weight of water color paper with its bumpy texture just thinking about it.  In high school and college I really started writing.  Words poured themselves onto college ruled notebooks and short stories written in the fashion of whatever novel I was reading at the time.  I discovered photography and found magic in a darkroom surrounded by projectors and tubs of solvents.

As an adult I took photography to a professional level and wrote in this blog intermittently.  But for the last two years, creativity hasn't been a regular part of my days.  Sure, here and there something will spark and I'll find myself rearranging my house and I'll feel that pull.  I watch Darby get deep into her coloring projects.  Talking out loud her sweet imaginings as she cuts and washi tapes and glues.  I know that feeling and I miss indulging in it regularly.

I'm trying to remind myself that creativity is not indulgent but necessary.  Brene Brown says in an Oprah interview, " Unused creativity isn't benign.  It metastasizes.  It turns into grief, rage, judgement, sorrow and shame."  The first time I heard that, it hit me hard in a deep, tiny place.  But that seems strong doesn't it?  If I don't paint once in a while I'll be filled with rage?  But its more than that.  I believe we are created beings who share the divine urge to create.  Maybe by not creating in some fashion, we're denying ourselves outlet, denying our stories an outlet.

“Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.” ~Steven Pressfield

So, I've been cooking lately.  Chopping garlic and sauteing mirepoix, tasting and adding herbs and spices at random, preferably with a glass of wine in hand.  It feels so good.  And lest you think I am a snobby gourmand, my husband took our family out to Ihop tonight where kids eat free and I loved every minute of it.  Because you can't be creative ALL the time.