I have been doing a lot of thinking about creativity. Where it comes from. How it works. Why sometimes my mind flies from idea to idea; why at other times I stare helplessly at the blank page that mirrors the state of my mind. Why sometimes fear is what keeps my mind silent; why at other times the poetry in my head outshines the anxiety and makes it down the shaft of my pen and onto waiting paper.
And here is what I have realised: when thinking about creativity, I mix my metaphors. Creativity is a flame, the first glow of the candle’s wick, so vulnerable that the merest breath of air transforms it to nothing more than a wisp of smoke, a memory so faint you can barely hold onto it. It must be nurtured, protected, until it burns strongly enough to light a whole room. A whole mind.
And yet, in apparent contradiction, my creativity is also water, a flow. Living water, clear and vibrant. Up until recently, the flow has been choked by weeds and debris. What used to be my creativity became a trickle of pollution, muddied liquid reminding me only of what I used to have. Healing has cleared some of these cloying weeds and while I can’t yet say the flow is strong, the water is running clear again. I am grateful.