From Doormat to Diva, Part II

This is no place for wimps, or for those with narrow minds cause things WILL get strange there. And no negativity or evil intentions are allowed...if that's kind of energy 'floats your boat' then move on to the next blog, you won't like it here...

The world I've created is a safe, light filled, but intriguing place, a place to feel welcomed, to find joy and contentment, and a little excitement and intrigue along the way. You probably won't believe a lot of what you read...some of it is based on fact, some on feelings, some on intuition, some I just made up, but all of it is the result of events, people, places and energy I've experienced.

As with any creative person, all of life's experiences -good and bad, positive and negative, painful and joyful - are fodder for the work. No matter if it is something as plain and emotionally pure of heart as folk art, strumming on a banjo, mandolin or guitar,crafts, writing songs, gardening, or simple rhyming poetry, it is all influenced from the energy life creates. I suspect that the more refiend the art becomes, the more complex the emotional energy required to create it.

Mine is simple, and every influence is my life flavors the mix.

Sadly, many of us will part ways here. Some of you won't be able to read past the poor sentence and paragraph structure, the mistypes, spelling errors and dyslexic typing even spellchecker can not manage. I appreciate your visiting and we part with no hard feelings. I've had visitors like you before and know how hard it is to set your editing instincts aside.

This has been the quieting source of fear in my life. People who excellent copy editors always want to read what you write so that they can tell you how poor it. If I had a dime for every English major who insisted I can't write because I can't spell or use a comma I'd own the real screened porch overlooking Lake Burton.

But my liberation came in the form of a resident writer I met when I returned to Brenau Univeristy as an adult student in the Women's College back in 1987. Paul Hemphill introduced me to a wonderful concept in dealing with those negative personlaity types. "Forget 'um. The world is if full of English majors who can compose a perfect sentence but who can't write down a story. You can. It annoys them. So Ignore them." God bless you Paul.

So to those of you who can't get past the improper use of the written language, you'll just have to wait until my copy editor finishes her job and pick up the sanitized version in your local bookstore. No hard feelings.

For those of you brave enough to venture on I suspect you understand because you too, are a 'creative type'. You know that exactness is not the goal here, capturing the idea IS. You too take raw material and processes it over days, weeks years, even decades. Then something happens - we reach highs and lows of emotion and the creative urge is fed, the muse comes alive. Be it laughter, joy, hormones, pheromones, or tears. All of the sudden you find yourself not wanting to, but NEEDING to write, paint, make music, do a craft project. You don't do it for anyone else to see, or read, or hear, no one else needs to even know it exist. It's only for you. Simply because you have to.

I mean, come on, it's all about the process. It's hard as hell, you can't rush it anc sometimes you just have to walk away. At first you find ways to kick start the creativity with nicotine, alcohol, or other mood altering substances. That works for a while. But it's darn inconvenient...one day you look around and you have a job, a mortgage, insurance premiums, kids who just won't play nice and take a nap, a needy partner who is under foot, pets who demand lap time and treats, and a never ending pile of chores that not just robs you, but eliminates the entire concept of 'me time', screw creativity. Then, over time, decades for we slower learners, there emerges a control in the process.

As an adult with a life partner, as part of a business, having friends and other interests you don't have the energy or the freedom to wait on the muse to descend. No longer can you extract yourself from those around you with an external substance, nor can you afford time for the roller coaster of physical consequences required to use them. And do I even need to mention money? That whole ball of stress related emotions that keeps you awake at night and interferes with your digestion does not allow for 'recreational' substances. Some ,months adding couple of bottles of Shiraz to the grocery cart is a stretch. And yet, the creative urge never dies. The more harried, stressed we get, the more precious those quiet moments become, the more we NEED to express ourselves.

So we learn to reach out to the creative spirit, the muse, your higher self, through other ways...you meditate, pray, use music or a quiet moment on a porch or deck. And those moments of life, experiences, emotions, joy, disappointment, fear, and confusion all take on a life of their own. They become a jumble collecting in your subconscious, spilling over into your dreams, your every waking thought. They annoy you, they poke at you, and they interfere in every day tasks like driving and cooking until you simply HAVE to deal with them. You steal a moment here, a half hour there. Ever so slowly you untangle them, sort them. You trash the junk, keep what you can't identify, organize and preserve the rest. Then an unexpected window of opportunity arises and you pull out your brushes, your pen, your guitar, your laptop, lined paper, and a pen and slowly begin to weave those threads.

I know I'm mixing my metaphors here, but this is about process, and process is not consistent. One day it's a stew, the next a large loom on which you begin to load those threads of ideas. You may have a vague idea of a recipe, a pattern, a melody or a plan, but mostly its pure unadulterated gut instinct. You begin to see personality traits of people you know and love... or dislike, appear in those threads. Over here are the annoying ticks and habits of coworkers. This section holds the smiles and small considerations of good friends. You start attaching threads, creating a taunt base. Each idea is attached, your creativity a shuttle passing between the rows, compacting them into a colorful fabric of life. The sweet and adorable antics of children, tender and passionate moments with a partner, fond memories of former lovers, childhood moments of feeling special, being secure and loved. You weave and weave, your nose so deep in the project you can't yet see the tapestry emerging.
Then the fear kicks in. What if it's ugly, bitter or -god forbid- too sweet? What if no one likes it? What if they laugh at me, or what if it's good and they expect more?

Sometimes the thicker shuttle thread breaks and has to be reloaded. Without warning a garish and incongruent pattern begins to take shape. You recognize the fear and heartbreak of watching a failing or demented parent, childhood anger and disappointment, adolescent angst, betrayal and manipulation, failures and hard knocks all becoming part of your work. You can feel the tickle of the tiny threads, smell the dye and your eyes begin to itch from the cotton dust. Days, years or even decades go by as you use this project to relieve stress, to forget your crappy job, to deny how sad and lonely your life has become. It sits patiently collecting dust until you simply can not stand the noise in your head any longer and once again sit down to weave.

Then, one day you step back to the loom and those taunt and tiny threats. Suddenly there is nothing reflective of anyone person or situation, and yet everyone and everything thing you have encountered - the course of your life is reflected there. The threads have become a tapestry, something totally new and complete. Something all your own. You sigh with contentment, and your muse smiles.

Most of us take those tapestries and tuck them away as papers in an old dresser drawer, paintings unframed piled in a corner, sketch books stored under the bed, or as stored electronic files. Once the adrenaline is over, the emotional release has been exhausted...the NEED to create sated, we stop making time for those moments to create. We are so relieved to have completed something we get back to being busy, of car pools and shopping lists, 'to do' lists and work projects, jerk bosses, and annoying coworkers. Neighbors that let their dog poop in your yard, and teens hell-bent on self-destruction by rebellion, and parents dying. We tamp down that little voice of the muse until she becomes dormant and the pressure of creating lessens. Live goes on...

And yet, there's still more, something edgier, a bit darker, deeper with meaning waiting to be brought to life. Still with me? You brave and patient soul. I'm getting there. I promise.

(c) 2008 Rosanne Chastain Short

DBA Rosanne Chastain