There was a time, in the not too distant past, when I flexed my creative muscles on a regular basis. I didn't just have one outlet for it, I had half a dozen. I would spend afternoons sitting in the park watching the bocce ball players as I scribbled line after line after line of nonsensical gibberish that was barely worth the paper it was written on, just to get one or two perfect lines out of my head and onto the page.
I would stroll the aisles of arts and crafts stores looking for inspiration only to suddenly find myself decoupaging my coffee table with pictures and words cut out of fashion magazines. People still love that coffee table.
Sometimes I would spend hours in a store full of fabrics, millions of colors and patterns to choose from as I picked out just the right ones for a small quilt I was making for a friend's soon to be born baby, and then I would go home and lose myself in the hum of a 30 year old sewing machine.
Occasional Saturday afternoons would find me ensconced in the local paint your own pottery store, diligently stroking bits of color onto ceramic bowls and plates and mugs that still sit in various corners of my house, reminding me of when I used let art flow through me like breath.
Last year I found scrapbooking. Colors and textures and photos all converged upon each other as I found the just right places for the pictures I treasured from the moment I took them, and I could lose myself in it for entire days.
Lately though....lately, I have not allowed myself time to be creative, and I realized today that this is why I have been unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. I spend inordinate amounts of time at work surfing the web, reading forums while occasionally managing to finish a task. At home I surf mindlessly, either through channels or webpages, unable to focus on any one thing for any long period of time.
I have stifled my creative side and in doing so, I have stifled myself. I am a creative being, a person who finds as much beauty in a well-turned phrase as she does in a beautifully painted piece of stoneware. I need time to indulge that side of me, time to sit and write stories about ghosts and cats who can talk and bad poetry. Time to sit and drink a cup of tea while I really read a good book, rather than just skimming through it like I have been lately. And maybe an afternoon in front of my sewing machine, making art with a needle and thread.
Maybe then I'll be able to focus on the rest of my life a little better again.
I would stroll the aisles of arts and crafts stores looking for inspiration only to suddenly find myself decoupaging my coffee table with pictures and words cut out of fashion magazines. People still love that coffee table.
Sometimes I would spend hours in a store full of fabrics, millions of colors and patterns to choose from as I picked out just the right ones for a small quilt I was making for a friend's soon to be born baby, and then I would go home and lose myself in the hum of a 30 year old sewing machine.
Occasional Saturday afternoons would find me ensconced in the local paint your own pottery store, diligently stroking bits of color onto ceramic bowls and plates and mugs that still sit in various corners of my house, reminding me of when I used let art flow through me like breath.
Last year I found scrapbooking. Colors and textures and photos all converged upon each other as I found the just right places for the pictures I treasured from the moment I took them, and I could lose myself in it for entire days.
Lately though....lately, I have not allowed myself time to be creative, and I realized today that this is why I have been unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. I spend inordinate amounts of time at work surfing the web, reading forums while occasionally managing to finish a task. At home I surf mindlessly, either through channels or webpages, unable to focus on any one thing for any long period of time.
I have stifled my creative side and in doing so, I have stifled myself. I am a creative being, a person who finds as much beauty in a well-turned phrase as she does in a beautifully painted piece of stoneware. I need time to indulge that side of me, time to sit and write stories about ghosts and cats who can talk and bad poetry. Time to sit and drink a cup of tea while I really read a good book, rather than just skimming through it like I have been lately. And maybe an afternoon in front of my sewing machine, making art with a needle and thread.
Maybe then I'll be able to focus on the rest of my life a little better again.
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