Why creativity is hard

“You’re supposed to be expressing yourself creatively, it’s essentially the thing that gives you life.”

A graph of my birth details are up on the screen, a mixture of planets, times and colours that I don’t understand, but a specialist is explaining to me in the form of a reading. An overarching theme of my chart is that I have to create in order to feel fulfilled.

I don’t identify with this. “Really?,’ I’m sure she can sense my hesitation, ‘I know this is going to sound weird, but I didn’t know that about myself.” I pause, as I quickly trace through the layers of my life, trying to pluck moments that could pass as creative. “I identify more as practical, to be honest.”

When I got off the call, I spent the next couple of weeks randomly asking friends and family point blank – “Would you call me…creative?”

Every response was a version of “Yes!?”

The general consensus was, how do you not know this about yourself? It’s funny how we can easily see these details in others, but it’s more challenging to spot them in ourselves, especially when we are in the bustle of life. I can see creativity in everyone I know, but I struggled to see where I was creative.

So my logical, very productivity oriented self, went to work. I was going to figure out what creative projects would “give me life”. We’re in a lockdown in Ontario, so I couldn’t just hop over to an arts and craft store and fill my cart. Instead, I ventured into the abyss of my basement, to see what I could muster up.

And that’s when it all became clear.

My basement was like my own personal craft store.

Oils, watercolours and acrylics in every colour. I’d forgotten all about those times I felt compelled to paint a landscape and picked up all the supplies, only to be distracted by something of a higher priority. I even found an easel and 5 empty canvasses, just waiting for paint.

Pastels, charcoals, drawing pencils and stencil paper. I loved to draw when I was a teenager, it was really more like doodling. Tucked away in old journals, I found pages of hand drawn flowers, butterflies and trees.

Beads upon beads upon beads, with rope, string, nylon and all the clamping tools from when I wanted to make a macramé plant hanger.

Natural dyes for that time that I made my own tie dyed blankets.

Plastic rolled into careful cones with a fine tip for my henna projects.

A bucket of tools – scissors, clamps, paintbrushes, sponges, glue, clips and rulers.

A maker’s dream, right here in my basement.

At first, I felt a lot of shame. Why was I holding onto to all of these items and not using them? What a waste! I couldn’t help but veer towards practicality.

As I worked on organizing the paints by medium and sorting through all the paintbrushes to see which ones were beyond repair, it hit me.

What was simmering in me all along, was creativity. Creativity was whispering to me ALL.THE.TIME.

Those random spurts where I wanted to draw, write, sing, paint…that was my creativity screaming for a chance to be let out. But it’s easy, very simple really, to get lost in practicality. Creative endeavors are a privilege right? We need to earn an income, pay our bills, save for the future – so creative self- expression often takes a seat in the back. Maybe on a whim, we buy some paint but if the creativity doesn’t come quickly and with ease, we assume we aren’t creative.

It’s easier to be distracted by work and our list of things to do. Surely, I am not the only one with a collection of beautiful things to create with, but with no idea how to tap into that creativity? My basement was filed with everything a person could need to begin creating, but I had no idea where to start.

So I treated it like a work project, where would I begin? At the beginning, of course.

The general rule of doing anything, is just starting.

I picked up a pair of scissors and a roll of thin plastic overwrap and followed my intuition.

I took scissors to plastic and cut little squares.

I took those squares of carefully cut plastic and rolled them into cones, securing them with tape. They reminded me of little piping bags.

Instead of filling them with henna, I filled them with acrylic paint.

I was experimenting. It was a giant mess, I’m a perfectionist, but I told myself I couldn’t stop until I finished something.

Some of the cones weren’t tight enough and paint exploded out the sides as I tried to squeeze my design out.

My hands were covered in paint, cracking as it dried on my hands.

I used a piece of wood as the canvas, the surface wasn’t even, as an afterthought, I wished I had of sanded it down.

Then the dips and cracks in the wood took on a life of their own and started to give it character.

I saw a moon, a dream catcher, colours dripping everywhere. I forgot where I was, I didn’t see the mess anymore, I was having fun.

The end result wasn’t perfect.

I was definitely not going to take up selling it or gifting it.

As an adult, I find play difficult. Painting feels like play. I’m sure I’m not the only one that is challenged by creative endeavors that don’t provide a tangible benefit along the way.

That’s why, if it doesn’t come naturally or we don’t think we’re any good, it’s so easy to move onto something more productive, like work or cleaning. But creative self expression hits differently, even if it’s not going to benefit anything or anyone, even when it feels like a waste of time. I understand now, what the specialist was trying to explain to me. We are all overflowing with creativity, it looks different to each of us, but it’s in all of us, and it’s in all of our benefit to take some time to play with our own creative self-expression.

Listen to the whispers in your heart, is there something you dream about making? Listen to those gentle nudges, when is the last time you were truly present? We all have a free pass here, when is the last time you played?

Take some of your precious time here to experiment with the feeling of paint to canvas, scissors to rope, seeds to earth.

In the midst of all the practicality, don’t miss the chance to spread your light.