Moments of necessity have written themselves across the pages of my day; and left me exhausted by story's end. In doing so, my story is left with ripped and tattered pages-left naked where the soothing balm of creativity was once scrolled. I once was a creator, a glimmer and shadowed image of Creator God. I once pleasured in the creation of design, the melding of color, the marriage of simple that gave birth to the complex.
I remember that love, fondly, and have returned to that place in my mind these few months past, pining for the time when once again I might be free to pursue this love of mine without the sacrifice of other, more important tasks.
Creativity is a balm to my soul, the making of something from simple objects sooths the burdens of the day and makes things beautiful again. Is it true for you, as well? Do ALL people have a passion to create in some form? In the baking of a dish? The telling of a story? The paintor and palette? or even, the folding of laundry?
Oh, how I've longed to stitch and twirl, to draw and paint, to be surrounded by the OPPORTUNITY. To have the supplies at my disposal.
Clothes are more important than skeins, teaching more important than stitching, dinner moreso than beautifying.
Besides, I had no place. No place to call my own. No space to unload the many boxes marked hastily with "CRAFT".
The old house had three rooms. Besides the master bedroom, it had a medium room and a very very *small* room (too small even for a bed, I suspect) which gave me a free conscience to snatch it as my own, a creative space to pursue my hobbies, free from guilt and without the need to clean up a project from the table before every meal. This house has two rooms beside the master bedroom: thoughtfully painted with us in mind, one pink and one blue. Our kind landlord thought we would love that, given we have ourselves a boy and a girl. But the pink room is the only one with a closet, and so the dilemna began.
I like my children sharing rooms. Lord willing, there will be many more bodies to fill beds-even beds to the ceiling.
Our children ENJOY sharing rooms. They like to be together, they are fast friends. I suspect that rooming together has only deepened their bond.
I like the selflessness they learn through sharing their things and space, the lesson of esteeming others better than yourselves.
And so- either Panda had to reside in the pink room, or Corynn in the blue (without a closet for either), or they would have to live in a lonely, echoingly sparse room without a friend nearby. Of course, much mention was made by visitors about how perfect a situation it was, a room for each. Only that I didn't WANT them to be separate (nor did they)! But I was informed that, this is how it is done.
Many weeks I tormented over the situation- WHY do people need to care, anyway?!? Isn't it OUR home? Why should I care what people think, anyway?!? And yet: I do. Utterly and regretfully...too much.
Eventually it was decided, that the Pink room should suffice for both children, and will help to keep them warm and our heating costs down by having them share a room and closing off heat to the other. Panda, the boy child is too young to notice the color anyway. Many children could fit into the pink room-but we'd happily separate the genders once it was necessary. But still, I would not, COULD NOT use the blue room for a craft room.
It is too large! People would think I was selfish, and forced a boy to sleep in a PINK room (gasp!) because I wanted a huge crafting space all to myself, which couldn't be further from the truth. So-even as the blue room sat void of a purpose, I put it out of my mind.
Boxes marked "CRAFT" continued to sit, stacked and piled in a lofty tower of mockery, that my long-ago love was to be put off even longer, until an adequate space was found. Adequate being, of course, socially acceptable.
How foolish it is, though, to worry about the color of paint on a wall? To concern myself with the views of others? Haven't I better things to dwell on? A room sits empty and boxes remain stagnant, while I despair with an unfinished home. Something is wrong here!
My disposition is not of a depressive sort, but I have never seen such low days as the days I trudged around feeling myself and my home, undone and unlovely.
Then, the office desk-and the closet were done and how WONDERFUL it felt to have accomplished so much! To be orderly, and tidy, and that much less enslaved to my present circumstances! It was then that I decided, regardless of how I am perceived, it would be utterly FOOLISH not to utilize a space that is available just to keep tongues from wagging. My sanity is more important-and my sanity was waning a bit more each time my eyes focused on another box of brown-another reminder of not being settled, just another bullet on my never-diminishing to-do list. The greatest happiness I could even perceive right now, would be not to see another cardboard box for the rest of my life. For everything to be in its' rightful place. To be simplified, uncluttered, and have a home filled with the beauty of HAPPINESS and not despair.
So yesterday I began the last, most dreaded task of all. The Blue Room. The last undone room of the house. The home to the last, looming bits of cardboard.
I am in the midst of it as I write. My Bunkin, womb baby extraordinare, has asked me with feet and fist to sit and rest for a few moments~which I will not ignore as I did yesterday. The memory of the nausea and contractions, the fright of yesterday bend me into submission this day, and I vow I will not overdo.
But may I just say, how wonderful it is, to twist about my finger the covered bridge red and montana sky blue of homespun yarn? To fold neatly and stack the many swatches of fabric, bought and received? To jingle the bobbinfuls of thread in rainbow colors? To rediscover the many works-in-progresses that I carefully tucked into boxes so long ago, never realizing how long it would be until I found them again?
I am taking my time with this project, not working as hastily as I have the others, because I feel myself drawn to linger over the colors and textures of my long-ago companions. I must soak up and breathe in the contentment that rises, just being NEAR my old friends.
And suddenly, I have been reintroduced to to a piece of me I feared I had lost.
A thread of joy now wraps itself around me, and hope for creativity has been rekindled once again.