Spring has emerged from its long hibernation. I’m enjoying the sun rays warming my back as I take the trash outside. Upon returning inside, I notice a bowl of homemade banana pudding, Mama’s labor of love, upturned on the freshly mopped floor. The three year old and the one year old exchange a mischevious glance. I step over it, resisting the urge to pick up the bowl, wipe up the mess and be done with it.
They have to learn to clean up their messes. I won’t always be there for them.
I walk to the laundry room and empty the dryer. Warm, fluffy clothes fill a plastic laundry basket. More clothes to fold. I open the washing machine and toss the damp clothes into the dryer. More clothes to dry. The faint sound of innocent giggles tickles my ears. I start my folding regimen. I daydream about solitude.
I’m an introvert by nature. When it’s quiet, I have time to think. And write. When it’s quiet, I can tap out a sentence on a keyboard. And when it’s not so quiet, I steal moments to write.
But some days, these moments slip from my grasp.
And so I fold laundry. Or wash a dish. And wonder how to remain creative during the daily. A silent fear begins to overwhelm me, a fear which my rational self fights hard to ignore.
Will I be relegated to the daily forever?
I wonder if Jesus asked himself the same question when the disciples asked him how they were to feed the four thousand.
I’ve grappled with this question many times in my domestic ventures, especially when I’ve tried to finagle writing a page of my novel in a notebook while rocking a baby in the middle of the night. Or when I pass by a craft store and admire an intricate quilt that a pair of gifted hands created.
Could I be gifted with such a long stretch of time to create?
There is room for art in any life we have – any life, no matter how crowded or overstuffed, no matter how arid or empty. We are the (writer’s) “block” we perceive -Julia Cameron, “Walking in this World”
To believe that I need a long stretch of time to create is an excuse not to create. I’m here. I’m steeped in the daily. And I’m fully present {when I’m not daydreaming.} Divinely appointed to rock babies, wipe runny noses, and clear poopy butts of fecal rubbish. Divinely appointed to teach and to nurture and to love.
And sometimes I discover sparks of the creative in pages I scribbled in the middle of the night. Or when I notice my children giggling at one another while I fold laundry.
And when I feed two mouths at a dinner table, my four thousand….
…Miraculous.
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