Creativity is an interesting animal. I love to create things. I love to be creative when I cook. I love to be creative with fabric and make skirts, or dresses, or quilts, or you name it. I love to be creative with my words, when I write, or preach, or develop new ideas for even new writings. I love to be creative in thinking of ways to develop new and different and deeper relationships.
I have found, however, that my creativity is a delicate thing. If I am stressed, or rushed, or sad, or trying to force it too hard, it will not work. I’ll sit in front of a screen, and watch the cursor blink until the monitor goes to sleep. I’ll find little things to occupy my time, because I don’t want to take the energy to open up the creativity banks. I’ll get stuck and only rehash what I’ve done before, and not go into a new territory.
I love going into new territory. I love surprising myself. One time I read a selected quote from something I had written, and I had forgotten I had written it. I wanted to find the author.
But sometimes I get distracted. Sometimes the only thing that I can hear is the plunk of the leaky faucet. I get stuck, and I have no access to the creativity banks under the surface. There is nothing that is there for me to see.
And so the prospecting, and digging must begin. It’s gotta start somewhere. I wish I had a divining rod for my creativity. A tool or a notebook or a journal or a way to work out of a wilderness, where the air saps out any creativity that could mar the desert.
Is there a map to the natural spring of creativity? Where do I start to find the words that can take on their own life?
For a while, blistered hands and feet may be the only rewards for the search. But perhaps there can be more, perhaps the mirage on the horizon holds more promise than we know.