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Archive for the ‘Creativity’ Category

sumac, feathered fronds waving, hear it first
autumn’s gentle rapping on the garden gate
put on parti-colored togs to greet the arrival

nearby maples eavesdrop on the reunion
catch half the meaning but all the sense of joy
don festive gloves on five-fingered leaves

sweetgum and dogwood wake with a start
having overslept in summer’s waning sun
leaves blushing with groggy embarrassment

wisteria, in denial, refuses to join the fun
and with tendril fingers in viny ears
will sing la-la-la until their guest departs

evergreen elders tower over the festivities
enjoying the youthful exuberance at their feet
preparing for storms they know will come

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Bless me, Reader. It’s been three weeks since my last post.

Why? Because my calendar broke. Or more accurately, my introvert calendar broke.

What’s an introvert calendar? A calendar with nothing on it. Clean slate. Empty boxes with no fixed engagements. A fully functioning introvert calendar doesn’t mean I plan to do nothing. It means I have nothing planned. Big difference.

In this, my last year before retirement (T-minus 207 days and counting), there is much to do, and we’ve been doing it. Our calendar—especially during the past two months—has been chockablock with appointments, meetings, consultations, meet-n-greets, follow-ups, examinations, and procedures. We’ve seen doctors, dermatologists, radiologists, phlebotomists, dentists, and oral surgeons (yes, #32 strikes again). We’ve met face-to-face with financial advisors, Medicare consultants, contractors, plumbers, and suppliers. And, somehow, we also managed to squeeze in a birthday (hers), a 40th wedding anniversary (ours), and even a few social engagements.

For anyone it would be a serious course in Advanced Adulting, but for a serious introvert like me, it’s been all that whilst running a marathon, and to be perfectly frank, I simply haven’t had the spoons for anything creative. My brain has been filled with concerns, info, deadlines, questions, and fretfulness both reasonable and un-, so my gardening mode has been “maintenance,” my cooking has been pedestrian, my reading has been limited to emails and current events, and I’ve written little and woven even less.

However (thankfully) September’s schedule has a bit more white space than did July/August, and we’re both counting on October to remain featureless and calm as the doldrums, because come November, it’s a new round of activity, with another birthday (mine), the holiday season, some brief travel, and a bathroom renovation stuck in for good measure.

But here’s the thing I want to pass along: during this time of non-creative busy-ness, I chided myself for avoiding creative endeavors, or at least I did, until I actually looked back at the calendar (the broken calendar) and saw just how busy we’ve actually been. Creativity takes energy, and as an introvert, I need quiet to recharge my batteries, and I haven’t had any of that. All of my energy has gone into what was needed, leaving little (or none) for what was wanted.

So when you find that you haven’t gotten back to that quilting project or written that poem, when you find yourself exhausted at the end of the day with no energy for that new recipe or insufficient focus to get back to that book you’ve been reading, take a breath and admit two things: we all have only so much energy, and we have to prioritize demands on it.

Life is rarely constant; it much prefers cycles, rising and falling, waves and troughs. As long as we keep creativity on the To Do list, there will eventually be time for it.

Just keep it on the list.

k

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Walking my garden paths
fingers inspecting leaves
snips cutting spent blossoms
I hum a tune born
four centuries past
across continents
and seas

I wonder if the author
as he wove his tapestry
of notes and voices
imagined his music
would live beyond his life
persist through time
as empires rose
and fell

I wonder if he
as the ink dried on
quavers and triads
imagined his melodies
would grace the flower-scented air
of distant gardens
in a land
unknown


 

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do not put vowels
in the dishwasher
as they are made
of air and intention
and will likely melt

consonants are built
of sturdier stuff
and may go in
the upper rack

punctuation is best stored
in the garage with
nuts and bolts and
other fasteners

words once crafted may be
machine-washed and tumble-dried on low
but avoid fabric softener
unless the water is
especially hard

take time assembling
phrases and sentences
aligning them to the meridian
in a clean well-lighted place
free from excessive drafts

paragraphs benefit most
from a finish on the line
in springtime when the
breath of the waking world
begins to blow

non-fiction requires precision
and regular maintenance
so for peak performance
tune to 4° before
top dead center

patience is recommended
when assembling fiction
to ensure tight seams
and a proper fit

stir poetry
over low heat
until reduced
by half

 

k

 

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it’s broke, so broke
I wake and feel
each day’s harsh edge
broke like torn tin
sharp and hungry
unforgiving

why so angry?
so harsh, so cruel
as if people
weren’t people
as if kindness
had no value

we want we want
it’s all we know
we take we take
it’s all we do
our circles shrink
collapse, darken
into a void

I don’t believe
in souls or gods
though I did once
a long time past
but then people
showed me their truth
and it seemed best
to believe them

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he took the time
looked up at day’s end
at sun-fired clouds
watching
slow subtle shifting
rose red orange
spark flame ember
glowing rusting cooling

he took the time
enjoyed the splash
of shadowed flights
on the sunset canvas
hard-edged jetliner dark-winged crow arrow-fast songbird
from farthest to nearer to near
all the layered worlds
sunlight to twilight
that lay between
his eye and the heavens

he took the time
not for the beauty
filling the space
between his heartbeats
but to give time its due
not to be spent filled wasted
but lived in
a constant transition
a string of nows
reaching
from dark to dark
without end

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I get rid of things

gadgets that lie unused
plants that don’t thrive
clothes that no longer fit

I discard, donate, sell
from pasta makers to cars
wanting the unusable gone
wanting the usable used

Better a new owner
a new set of hands
to work them
a new set of eyes
to value them
than the darkness
of my understairs storage

Except for books

I get rid of things,
but books are not things

Books
read and unread
are hopeful promises
treasure maps of the mind
histories yet unknown
friends unmet

I will spend my remaining years
inhaling their aroma
hearing the rustle of their leaves
taking them in
adding them to the thing
that is me

k

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