The Creative Act

Cold grey clay covered my hands. I had a slimy live monster slithering through my fingers threatening to entwine my wrists.

Today we’re making pottery. Don’t touch the clay on your desk, the teacher said.

I captured the oozing monster, and turned him back into a round dull ball of clay.

The teacher explained how to make pottery and we began molding and forming the clay into pots.

My monster didn’t like being made into a pot. He protested and left cracks on the pot’s rim and stood slightly lopsided, threatening to morph back into a slimy monster puddle. When parts of him started to cave in I held my hands around him and tucked him back into being a pot.

You have to be a pot, I said.  Stop trying to be a monster!

As the moisture in the clay began evaporating the monster couldn’t slime around anymore, hardened, and became a rigid pot.  

The day we painted our pottery, I plunged my paint brush into a jar filled with blood red paint, and held the brush high, twirling it in circles like Dad taught me to twirl my fork in the spaghetti noodles so they wouldn’t fall to my plate.  

The paint didn’t work like spaghetti and streamed back to the jar. I changed my technique and became a tractor operator, moving my monster pot next to the paint, scooping paint with my brush, and swiveling the brush over the pot – letting it drop to the pot’s cavity.

Becky, be careful, that’s a lot of paint. It’s dripping everywhere.

The teacher took the brush out of my hand and demonstrated how to paint – one small dab of color at a time.

**

Earlier this year, while attending a neighborhood gathering, I admired an artful display of colorful yarn wrapped branches in the hallway of my host’s home. The whimsical sticks looked as if they’d been plucked out of a Dr. Seuss book. 

The host saw me eyeing them.

I made those, she said. You should come to one of our monthly art craft days.

My brain started shuffling my deck of ‘Can’t make it’ cards; I’m sick. I’m out of town. I'm dog sitting a friend’s dog. I’m not an artist. That’s it! That’s the one.

I am not artistic, I said. Believe me. 

Neither am I, she said.

I didn’t believe her. 

She was part of a neighbor group that held an annual art and craft show where they displayed, and sold their art, homemade coffee, candles, garden tools, towels and exquisite wood jewelry boxes.

I forgot about her invitation until the following month when I was included in a group text; We’re having an art craft day. Who’s in?

My property was encircled by artistic pioneer women*** neighbors all giving a thumbs up to attending this art craft day.

One of my neighbors repurposed greeting cards. When I received a card from her I’d admire the intricate detail and thoughtful words she wrote, and her clever way of making the used card better than the original. Then there were my wood making neighbors; Seattle Farm Tables – they made handmade wood tables for weddings and other events.

The neighbor across the street sheared her own pasture sheep and spun wool on her loom to create dish towels. And another neighbor welded. Did you get that? She WELDS. She welds metal into stunning giant art.

I found myself digging around in my storage for the midnight blue and blood red pot I made in grade school. When I found it, I could see the monster was still stuck in the pot.  

Maybe there was a way to free the monster - like excavating a fossil from layers of soil. I also wondered if making a monster into a pot against his will short circuited a neural pathway in my brain?  The artistic one, - if it existed.

I am no scientist. Believe me. But neuroscientists say you can make new neural connections and pathways anytime in your life, or reawaken ones that haven’t been used or were shut down.  

Could I reawaken a dormant brain pathway, or create a new one by attending my neighbor’s art crafting day? 

I’m in. I texted my artistic neighbors.

**

Rebecka, get your bird, a neighbor said.

The artist craft gathering project for this day was bringing a wooden bird to life.

Beads, scissors, papers, acrylic paints, brushes, wire, buttons, strings, yarns, feathers, glue guns and a stack of wooden birds were strewn across the kitchen counters.

The crafty artistic ladies laughed and openly talked about ideas of what they could do with their birds. Every idea was hailed as a great idea.  I could try this. I love this sassy feather. I’m going to make eyes with these. You are so creative!

I looked at the wooden bird in my hands.

What am I going to do with you? 

Eyeing the paints on the table, I settled on trying an orange terracotta acrylic reminiscent of a glowing summer sunset in the Pacific Northwest, and dipped the tip of my brush in. I marveled at how I transformed the bird into life without getting paint on me, or my neighbor's table.

That’s good. I thought.

The other ladies sent a few encouraging words my way.

What about eyes? Someone asked.

That’s a big step, I thought.  

Do you want to see life?  I asked ‘Birdie’.  Or would you rather hang back and be safe and sightless?

Birdie wanted sight.

You could try feathers, somebody offered.

Feathers? Oh, I don’t know. That’s a lot.

I cupped Birdie in my hands, sheltering her from these wild artistic women. Birdie wasn’t going to grow up to be an extroverted peacock, showing her colors. She was more of a bush bird.  

But, - she could try a feather on.  

I held a flamboyant feather up to Birdie.

One of the artists showed me how to use a drill to make a tail hole. I popped the feather into Birdie and that swaying feather brought her to life - and at the same time seemed to perk up my dried up artistic neural brain pathway.  It did exist.

When I got home later and saw my childhood pot, I saw that the monster had been freed.

Do you have a story in your life with a monster that needs freeing, or do you need to build new neural pathways? It's not to late to change and grow.

Life. It's Yours. Go all in.

*** Thank you to my dear artistic neighbors for your generous spirits, kind words, engaging personalities and the welcoming community you built.