A Creative Mind

Creativity is born from a need to solve problems.

That’s what I’ve always heard.

For some reason, that thought immediately crossed my mind when Elaine burst through my door this afternoon. She held a small, rectangle piece of paper.

It looked like a check.

“It’s $20,000, Angelea!” she said. Her eyes were red rimmed. “It’s for you. From all of them.”

Creativity is born from a need to solve problems.

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I am both a writer and an artist.

My self-proclaimed journey as both started when I was six. My mom would give me sheets of white copy paper and crayons to entertain myself in our black Ford Tarus.

Red, blue, purple, and black colors danced their way across each page as we drove to the grocery store or doctors’ appointments. I wrote about the places we visited and the people we met. Squiggle letters. Potato style people (my illustrations of humans didn’t include the proper limbs until I was eight).

I still like to write about places and people. But now, bright green landscapes, sparkling blue waters, unique architecture, and exoctic landscapes dance across the pages of my little black notebook.

They are travel stories; snippets of a life.

These snippets go onto my blog--not every story of course, but the ones that I or Elaine deem satisfactory.

My writing is neither eloquent or particularly funny (I’m too blunt for that). I’ve been told though that my stories transport, even if only for a few moments. That’s enough for me.

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“Write more about the Amazon Rainforest,” several readers have asked. My only story on the Amazon River thus far included an alarming encounter with the wildlife.

It was a warm day. I sat in a small canoe with my tour guide, Moisés. We were on the edge of a bank, the muddy water barely rocking our wooden perch. Blue morpho butterflies breezed gently past my head and into the green lush. I had my little black book out again. I wrote,

“Shades of blue. It’s the only way I can describe the butterflies here. Iridescent, beautiful blue.”

As I attempted to sketch their delicate wings, I heard Moisés shift. He whispered something in Spanish.

“What?” I asked, not lifting my eyes from the page.

“It’s a jaguar,” he said, this time in English. I glanced up. He slowly pointed ahead.

My eyes squinted at the faint shape along the riverbank. “That’s not a jaguar,” I said politely. It was another Jabiru Stork, walking deliberately through the shallow water.

Moisés made a face and he pointed again. I saw it this time.

Not even forty yards away, a jaguar sat quietly drinking at the water’s edge. Its yellow and black fur glistened in the morning sun. A mixture of both fear and awe swept over me. I heard myself gasp.

The jaguar’s head lifted. Her eyes met mine for a brief instant. Then she turned and disappeared into the rainforest as quietly as she had come.

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A travel story in Paris offered a reprieve from the mugginess of the rainforest. Last spring, I wrote about sitting outside of a small French cafe. While I sat, I drew a picture of a classic French woman who breezed past my table.

The smell of coffee united with the smell of perfume.

“Est-ce que vous voulez commander?” the waiter asked, his eyes politely meeting mine.

I glanced down at my menu. I attempted to answer in French. “Les...tomates...farcies.”

The waiter nodded and said in a perfect Parisian accent. “Les tomates farcies.”

“Les tomates farcies,” I repeated. Seemingly satisfied with my pronunciation, the waiter bowed and returned into the cafe.

During the day, French cafes were my favorite places to sit and people watch. Young tourists turning their maps this way and that. “I believe the Eiffel Tower is this way“ they’d murmur. French mothers and fathers taking their French children by the hand. Old men shuffling along the street, a newspaper under their arm.

But in the evenings, I preferred writing about the quiet walks along the Seine with Parisian lights twinkling in the distance; a place where I could hear the sound of music drifting softly out of flat windows instead of the noise of tourist chatter and selfie attempts.

After a lifetime of the distant hum of people talking, hushed tones, loud exclamations, I prefer the quiet. Quiet places hold magic.

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It’s the quiet that also drew me to the Appalachian Trail and my story about hiking the entire 2,190 miles; 2,190 miles of beautiful American Beech, Sugar Maple, and White Ash trees, wild animals, and breathtaking views.

Thousands of hikers attempt a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail every year. Only one in four people are able to finish.

I knew I could do it. Elaine always says I’m stubborn.

The hike was difficult, full of steep hills, slippery paths, and pouring rain. I struggled building a fire my first two nights on the trail. The construction of my small pup tent? It looked like a five year old had set it up. I also didn’t sleep much. I heard too many stories of black bears wandering by.

A character that stands out in the story is Derek, a fellow hiker who I met along one of the toughest parts of the trail: the Roller Coaster which is roughly over 13 miles of climbs and descents.

“I’m not a hiker,” Derek told me after he introduced himself. We were both taking a break on the side of the trail. I was panting heavily. My backpack was crushing into my neck and my feet hurt.

“Then why do you want to hike the Appalachian Trail?” I asked.

“Because why not?” he grinned. On the fifth mile of the trail, dark thunder clouds rolled in. On the seventh mile, Derek stopped in the middle of his story about growing up in rural Arkansas. He wiped his forehead, and smiled at me. “I think the rain will hold off.”

Big, fat raindrops began to fall. I glanced back at Derek. He shrugged, smiled, and continued walking. An unapologetic optimist.

We scrambled up and down those Virginia hills. Though it was already May, the rain was cold. My bangs stuck to my forehead and I was covered in mud. The trees even looked depressed, wilted heavily under the weight of water.

Only Derek was unaffected. Oh, he was covered in mud but he never stopped talking cheerfully. I didn’t say much. I should have been annoyed by the constant chatter. Strangely, I found it comforting.

We made it, the two of us to the end of the Roller Coaster. The rain was still pouring, but I think this added to our feeling of accomplishment.

“Well, this is where I stop,” Derek said. He didn’t have time to do the full trail. “Good luck, Angelea.” He smiled.

I tried to bury the feeling of disappointment. “Good luck to you too, Derek,” I said. “When I think of being completely and utterly drenched, I’ll think of you.”

I watched as he disappeared around the corner of the trail center, my hand slightly raised in a wave.

Snippets of a life, creatively told.

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Sounds of the hospital eventually bring me out of my writing zone and back into my reality.

The steady beep, beep, beep of my IV. The clinking food cart on the sheet tile flooring. The low hum of the fluorescent lights. The sound of my nurse, Ines, asking if I’d like jello or pudding.

I set down my little black notebook and pen.

My hospital room isn’t unpleasant. It’s quiet. After six months here, I’ve gotten used to the four wallpapered walls, the large window overlooking the green park below. Elaine insisted that I have a room with a large window. Older sisters are good for things like that.

I haven’t been to any of the places I write about - not yet anyway. I’ve been too busy with doctor and hospital visits since I was six. I travel to exotic places through the stories I write, the drawings I create.

I wrote down my adventure in the Amazon Rainforest when I received the news that my condition was back. My trip to Paris happened on the first day of spring - the day after Elaine and I had to cancel our plans to New Orleans because of another one of my spells.

The surgery on my legs and the following physical therapy inspired my Appalachian Trail hike. Derek was another patient also in physical therapy. An unapologetic optimist.

They are snippets of a life - a life that I would like to live someday.

The blog readers are real though. So are the items they’ve sent me. The postcard of a Goliath Birdeater in the Amazon. A leaf picked up from the Boulevard St. Germain in Paris. A blue and white patch from the North Georgia Mountain Crossing along the Appalachian Trail.

They know about my condition and I always mention that my travel stories are fictitious accounts on my blog. I’ve never met one of my readers in person though.

“$20,000!,” Elaine said again.

I blinked. My chest suddenly felt very tight. I wasn’t normally one for tears, but this news was surprising. “How…?” I asked.

“Your blog readers, they raised the money.” Her words were coming out fast. “Someone commented about the treatment you needed and the cost. They all donated money online.”

Ines was standing to the side of my bed, quiet. But she was smiling the smile of one who had a secret.

“It’s enough for the new treatment, Angelena.”

My fingers rubbed the ink stained side of my left hand.

Creativity is born from a need to solve problems.

“What are you going to do?” Elaine asked, her hand clutching my arm.

“I’m…” I tried to swallow past the emotion in my throat. How can one simply say “thank you” to that kind of generosity?

I looked down, my little black notebook and pen still resting on the side table. My laptop sat tucked in my backpack beside the hospital bed. My blog readers hadn’t heard from me in three weeks.

I glanced back at Elaine, my mouth turning up into a smile.

“I’m going to write.”