to the dance of life
Inspired by Debbie at Goodthoughts, who shares a little bit of her creative process, I started a discussion on Intersection about the creative process, especially the beginnings.
Why not share with each other how we get started, what brings brush to canvas, words to page, fingers to piano?
As I sit to write this, I don’t know where it will go. I don’t know how the threads of the story will weave. I admit, it’ll be rough. But stick with me as we figure out from whence came this imaginative, female theologian who loves the arts and how she came to accept that.
Growing up, I wanted to sit at the man’s side of the table when our family went out to dinner with another family. The woman’s side talked about raising kids and, well, I don’t remember what else (although I’m sure there’s much else). But the man’s side, now they talked about theology and occassionally football. I wanted to be in on that conversation.
Before I go any further, let me say this: raising kids is theology. Or it should be. But to a twelve-year-old mind, that connection isn’t clear. And my mom and I had and have more theological conversations than a toddler has opportunities for trouble, but at those dinner tables, my twelve-year-old (or however old I was at each time) didn’t hear it.
I wanted to talk theology.
You also need to know that I grew up loving Anne of Green Gables and Nancy Drew and later, I voyaged to the worlds of Dickens and Austen and rode the train with Agatha Christie and painted revenge with The Count of Monte Cristo.
And that when I entered seminary, I had spent a lifetime preparing to go into the music world.
So I enter this new world at 22, a world where I get to talk theology whenever I want, but a world where most of my colleagues come from world’s of engineering, a world where my music and my imagination had no place.
At least, that’s what I understood at the time.
It was a world dominated by men.
Where did I fit? A woman? A musician? A girl with pixie dust on my wings?
I adapted well enough. I taught flute lessons to help pay bills, so I had my music, even if I kept it separate from my theology.
Even if I had to pack Anne in a box.
Even if I tired of the questions, "So you must be here for women’s ministry?" and "Wow–you’re doing this program as a woman?" which I know they meant as a compliment but really, it’s an insult.
I was fine. Just fine. I liked the Greek and the Trinitarianism and the Missions studies. That side of me hid in my music world for the past four years.
Until midway through the second semester of the first year, I pulled my car on the side of the road because the tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t force the pieces anymore–the jigsaw puzzle had no picture.
To be continued…
For Christmas, my mom gave me this handy-dandy froth maker. It’s a small hand tool that whips milk into shape.
In other words, it makes ordinary coffee into a celebration.
When did we stop making our own froth? When did we come to depend on Starbucks?
You must realize by now that I’m not just talking java. I’m talking imagination.
When did we depend on others to imagine for us? When did we stop singing songs and writing poetry and sketching landscapes?
Back in the day, not my day, but a day long before me, that’s what people did for entertainment after dinner. They’d sally into the drawing room and take turns at the harpsichord. Or they’d sketch each other. Or play games.
Yes, yes. You say, but that’s the bourgeousie. The peasant class didn’t have time for such silliness.
They didn’t? That’s where folk songs originated. You know, from the folks. As a community, they sang together, improved new diddies together, told stories.
We’ve lost a theology of imagination.
Of course there have been paid artists, musicians, writers through the ages. I’m not arguing to get rid of them (I’d be talking myself out of job!). But when have we relegated all of our creativity to celebrities and professionals?
My husband and I’ve recently joined an Anglican church. One of the great things about an Anglican church is The Common Book of Prayer. The prayer we used to say after every service went like this:
Almighty God, so draw our hearts to you, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated to you; and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people; through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
Part of being dedicated to God means to allow Him to fill and use our imaginations.
I understand that we all have different personalities and different strengths. I’m not saying that we should all become professional artists. I am saying that just as I have to also use math and logic in my everyday life, though those aren’t my strengths (bills have to be paid and accounts have to be kept for my business!), so should we all exercise our imaginations on a daily basis, whether through dance, mothering, cooking, developing businesses that are to the welfare of the people, coloring, building, singing, writing. Using our imaginations is not a superfluous idea. It’s part of our calling as humans made in the image of our Creator and as Christians being restored to the complete image of our Creator.
So go into the world in peace and make your own froth!
Yesterday I went back to the English classes I guest taught last week to hear the stories they wrote. The eighth and ninth graders used the hero’s journey to structure their stories, most of them taking the bones we created last week and fleshing them out, a few going down a different path. Let me tell you, those kids stepped up. We had psychadellic horror (Mich, Chris–you guys would’ve been so proud), a more Catcher in the Rye feel (with a scruffy beagle), a Disney bent story, a mafia tone. We had it all. One girl had perfect dialogue and character development. Another did an amazing job with her POV. One guy–the horror guy–well, we’ll have to watch for him. His descriptions, tension, and flow almost made me jealous.
And the sixth graders with their Halloween stories–scary, gory, and with humor. All creative.
Here’s my point–when do we unlearn creativity?
I taught junior highers at a church for a bit. Loved it. At one point, I taught a series on the life of Jacob. From the beginning, I told them that at the last session, they would teach me. They could use whatever method they wanted to embody the story. It’s church. Not required. I didn’t expect much.
I was wrong.
These kids, ever single one of them, not only worked hard to prepare something, but they all displayed creativity in different ways–song, drama, powerpoint, drawing. And they got the point of the whole series. They understood.
As adults, we stop being creative. We’ve told ourselves one too many times that we’re not creative, that fingerpaints isn’t good enough, that creativity is for a few people who are left-brained (or is it right-brained? I can never keep that straight!). Or we’re too busy. Who has time for creativity? By the end of the day, about all we can do is flop on the couch with a remote.
So I have a challenge. (Chal-lunge! What movie is that from? Where some sumo-type guy walks around saying, "Chal-lunge!") Actually, it’s two part.
Part one: go to SoulPerSuit to register to win a coffee cuff. I shouldn’t tell you this because if you register, then I have less of a chance to win one, but Erin (of They Hang Like Paper Lanterns notoriety) is one of the coolest people I know. If she could bottle some of her creativity, it would sell like iPods, and you need to know about this particular product she’s handmade.
Part two: color in a coloring book or use fingerpaints or sculpt with Play-Doh or doodle with fun gel pens (the sparkly ones are the best). Personally, I have recently discovered an obsession with yarn: fuzzy yarn, sparkly yarn, ribbony yarn, yarn that looks like Mardi Gras, yarn that feels like kitten fur, yarn that has reminds me of dreadlocks. So I’m spending the weekend knitting. I’ll color some too. Report back on Monday.
You know what I think? (Well, you must have some curiosity on the subject seeing as how you’re reading this blog.) Since all of us have a piece of the image of God embedded in us, we all have the capacity for creation and creativity–not that we can create from nothing, conjuring up dust into humans, but we can all create. The question is, will we?
I tell tales--tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones. Some call it compulsive lying. I call it writing.
