For most of my life I had no idea I was an artist. I’ve loved words since I was young, but I certainly hadn’t seen them as a medium for my own artistic expression. Similarly, for most of my life I thought the voice in my head, my ongoing verbalized descriptions and reactions to life around me, was only speaking empty, idle thoughts meandering through my brain. I never dreamed it might be an idea river swollen with the content of my own creative voice interpreting the world around me. Over the last four years, I have come to recognize that I am an artist, my medium is (mostly) words, and those thoughts in my head are far from idle.
I never leave home without pen, notebook and camera, the tools I use to give expression to my creativity. Writing in The Life Literary for six months now, I have not wanted to miss anything the creative idea river brought my way.
Today after a lunchtime walk, I sat in a favorite park (next to the landscaped area I have dubbed The Union Center) on a bench in the shade of a tall pin-oak tree. I looked out over a large, open green lawn in the middle of the garden areas and felt a cool June breeze caress my face. I had at first intended to jot a few things down, a bit of flotsam and jetsam that had flowed into my consciousness as I walked. Instead, I sat there and simply enjoyed listening to my thoughts and ideas. I played with my own creative voice, not writing a thing. It was like dipping my feet in the river with no other goal than to enjoy it. Creativity for its own sake and, at that moment, for my own pleasure.
Simply pausing to cool off on the banks of the Idea River satisfied and left me at peace and relaxed. I wished for a blanket to spread under a tree so that, lulled by the music of passing traffic, the murmur of lunchtime voices, and the nearby fountain, I could take a nap.
