The Season of Being Creative

February 13, 2021

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together...

I grew up in a family of artists and writers. My grandfather sculpted, my father did pen and ink, my uncle painted, my mom worked as a journalist until she got married and my great uncle Howard was a feature writer and editor of a magazine called The Living Wilderness.

In light of all that, my parents were fine with the many hours I spent drawing and modeling and writing short stories or poetry. But the bar was set high at home and I didn't get a lot of positive feedback on anything I wrote or drew or sculpted.  Which might have been why the nice things my teachers, and the occasional classmate, said about my writing and artwork had such an effect.

By the end of elementary school I'd decided that my teachers were right and that when it came time for me to go away to college I would study English or Art or both.

My parents didn't agree. Probably because, with the exception of my great uncle Howard, everybody in my family, no matter how talented, worked a regular nine to five and did creative stuff on the side. According to my father, art was a hobby - not a career.  As part of that conversation, I distinctly remember him saying that being the best artist or poet in entire sixth grade didn't mean anything because by the time I got to college I would see that other people were better.

At twelve the idea of choosing a career that didn't pay the bills seemed almost irrelevant but, because being the best was a big deal in our family, I took the prediction about college to heart. My teachers and classmates still said nice things.  But by my sophomore year in high school I had stopped drawing and, aside from the occasional dark poem, there was no more writing for a very long time.

When it came time to choose a career, I chose nursing. But as an adult, just like many of my relatives, I dabbled.

I took art and craft classes. And when I was forced to take time off from my job because of a family tragedy I begin to write fiction.  I wrote a couple of manuscripts and hated them.  But I learned about writing through doing it.

Finally, I went back to community college and majored in commercial art. For a time I even worked in the graphic design department of our local newspaper. But eventually I went back to nursing because I was a single mom and I needed the money.

I missed the freedom of working at the paper but there were some things I liked about nursing - like the people I got to know as a visiting nurse. Some told me stories about coal mines and the depression and growing up in other countries. Others patiently corrected my garbled attempts to learn Polish or Gaelic. A few were instrumental in my decision to become Catholic.

But the wisdom that is most relevant here came from a retired nurse I used to visit.  In her retirement she had taken up painting. Her work featured big blown out Georgia O'Keeffe style flowers and impressionist landscapes that dripped with color.  One day after showing me her newest project, she made a prediction. And, unlike the prediction made when I was planning my college career in seventh grade, this one came true.

I remember it word for word. "You are going to love retirement, Barbara, because it will give you a chance to do all the things you've always wanted to do."

I guess that a lot of people probably think that will happen to them when they retire and then don't have the money or good health to actually do it.  But I am, I think, one of the lucky ones - because I have found writing and learning and art to be very accessible.

It is not necessarily easy.  I still struggle with confidence and prioritizing and feeling selfish or silly or old. I have issues that I am trying to work through.  And I have a love / hate relationship with my work.

I tear it down over and over again.  But I keep coming back to it.

Earlier this month I started this blog.  Last week I mostly restored a damaged holy statue and decided it would be fun to start a new Etsy shop.  This week I started a new story.  Maybe if I can get past the tearing things down phase it will eventually turn into a novel.

It's only a start.  But I think that, if I can just keep the faith and keep at it, I will begin to live the life I saw for myself when I was twelve.
The verse above is Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 New Revised Standard Version, Catholic Edition

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