Unexpected gifts

Well, last post did not do very well at all. Not that one writes posts for them to do well. But it is nice when they do. I might not write for validation, but I sure as hell love it when I get some.

I spent a whole counselling session talking about creativity the other week. I might have said it before but I have had it very clear in my head from a fairly young age that my body and heart and mind and soul did not contain an ounce of creativity anywhere. I am ok imitating (some would say copying?) what other people do, whether that’s dancing or drawing or capoeira. But I am incapable of generating anything new or pretty or even just vaguely recognisable as a form or a ‘thing’ even. When I am asked to produce ideas at workshops that involve freeze-framing or drawing or anything of the sort I suddenly feel the void. A disorienting dark dark silence between my ears.

A couple of months ago, I drew a pencil sketch for somebody I have barely met. They saw it and said it was great that their art had inspired art. Art. You heard it. Art. They called my little copy of a still-frame ART. See, I end up in tears just writing about it. They somehow implied I was capable of art. Simple, modest, unimpressive, whatever. But art.

A sketch from a still-frame of award-winning short ‘The definition of lonely’ (available on YouTube)

Fast forward to a few weeks later and my incredibly kind counsellor tells me she sees how split I am between my very analytical and logical ways – those I practise at work, develop with friends, deploy to learn and understand and critique and navigate this weird world – and my urge for creating and making and colouring and dancing – my strong creative pull, she called it. I thought about this for two weeks. I am still thinking about it, actually. When I saw her again I spent most of the session sobbing over how this whole thing around creativity felt such a gift to me. The fact that maybe – I haven’t decided yet – I could dream, maybe I could allow myself to believe I have a creative streak. To dig and hammer at the dark and rock-hard stuff that tells me ‘this is not for you’.

It’s been a few more weeks now and it still feels like somebody has knocked on my door and handed me a precious gem to hold on to. One that shines in any light, and tickles the heart when it gets a little too grey outside. It feels like bliss. It feels like hope.


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