My well of imagination doesn’t often run dry but it will get down to a trickle once in a while. I can still create a painting without a surge of creativity and usually flow will pick up once I start working. This week I have hit dry ground and I can’t seem to generate the energy to create. I will share my experience with you as I work through this creativity drought because we live in an age that threatens to rob us of individuality, independent thinking, problem-solving skills, and time to absorb genuine beauty; the essence of a creative human spirit. Our lives can rob us of our birthright to be creative. Sometimes we simply give it away, like Esau, for for something unworthy. (see Genesis 25).
There are many “helpers" available, anxious to fix us when we run low on creative energy. I’m not trying to provide more answers. I just invite you to walk with me through this drought until the rain falls once again.
It’s been about six weeks since we unrooted from our house of two years into a new location. The “why” we moved isn’t a part of this story but “that” we moved is. Shortly after making the move, we left for an already-planned vacation so unpacking was delayed. A week or so after that I left to spend time with my mom, and now my husband is on a guys’ golf trip. In other words, my life is still kind of a mess. I am, by nature, able to work through changes and interruptions by turning to painting as an escape from chaos and clamor. But this time, the elements that have come together are more than my creative drive can maneuver through.
My mother has slipped into the blurry world of dementia so visiting her is especially urgent. I’m so grateful that she still recognizes me. The travel from Ohio to California is worth it though Covid has made a long trip more demanding. My mom has a wonderful caregiver but it’s not the same as a daughter’s touch so I spent as many hours as I could helping with her care, walking with her, fixing meals, styling her hair; all things my sister faithfully attends to most of the time.
Dementia is a continuous grieving experience as you never know what you will find from day to day. Throughout the week I detected evidence that my mother is still there. Little sparks of humor, a sweet smile and warm affection for people who are willing to spend time with her. But as the hours of the day press on, she grows anxious and slips into a reality that only she can see. She talks endlessly of its perils and demands, asking that we respond to needs that we can’t identify. She’s burdened with worry, haunted by anxiety, and suffers in ways that only she knows. We don’t dare leave her alone in such distress.
Like all families experiencing the invasion of dementia, we struggle to know how to best care for her, to honor her marriage to our step-dad and provide him with the support he needs to stay healthy. The demand for wise and innovative answers is heavy and daunting. Under such circumstances my creativity began its slow-down. Then the long trip home, change of time zones and return to Ohio’s damp, cold spring left me exhausted, without a drop of creative thought.
I’ve always found that a little focus and order will enliven waning creativity. I purchased a great little Progress journal, one that is designed to “track, monitor and review your progress so you can stay focused on your big goals and make huge leaps towards your dreams.” I like that kind of stuff and I need to make huge leaps toward getting my home made and my studio established. So for a day or two after returning from my mom’s, I plotted my big goals and set myself on a schedule.
Nothing happened but nothingness. I have not had the energy to stay on track. Each afternoon this week has been spent giving into that nothingness. That’s hard on a goal-setter. Creativity takes energy and I did not have energy to make a good lunch much less create a unique and personal painting, find places for boxed belongings, or decide where furniture should rest.
I am grateful for wise people in my life whose perfect timing indicates a nudge from our Heavenly Father. One of those friends pointed out that loss of energy and creativity was most certainly the result of grieving. I need to give myself time to grieve the new losses occurring in my mother, the loss of an established and functioning home, the “loss” of my husband to golf (even though I’m glad he’s able to enjoy this long-planned event). After such enlightenment I was able to let my progress journal sit empty for a bit, knowing that with healing, it will be filled once again.
Letting go has allowed seeds of creative thought to sprout. I plan to apply paint to paper tomorrow and have an art student coming to add a bit more sparkle to my day. I even took a look at the little “house” that may become a studio. My creativity isn’t a driving force yet, but with some proper rest and sunshine, it’s bound to be back.
