Yesterday, I had the idea to write a short blog post every day this month in hopes of launching myself out of a mild depression that has afflicted me in the past week or so. However, this prescription of forced creativity only caused me to sink deeper into the chasm of self-doubt, and I did not end up writing a post for the first day. Now, I sit here ruminating over the keyboard; etchings of words dance in my mind, none worthy of typing out.
I decided a walk could help. I go to a nearby park, which takes just a few minutes to walk to. I pondered this lack of creativity I am facing and why I felt so paralyzed when it came to getting words out on paper. As I entered the park, I noticed the leaves were already beginning to turn. The foliage overhead still a patchwork of yellows and greens, but scattered before me on the trail were the loveliest red maple leaves. I felt the urge to collect them, so I did.
Picking up the red leaves made me want to add more to my growing collection. I found purple and white wildflowers, and a brown oak leaf covered in spots. I found a clearing with lots of mossy branches, and began arranging my collection. I prop wet, crumbly branches up against a big moss-covered log. I say hello to a few slugs and worms. A house begins to take shape.
When I taught preschool, making fairy houses was one of my favorite activities to do with the children. Many children loved it too, and would end up spending the entire outdoor period foraging for novel natural items. Most of these children were still at the stage of scribbling when it came to artwork, and had the attention spans to sit and concentrate for about ten minutes tops, yet were able to craft these thoughtfully intricate structures from the world around them. They would ask me when finished, “When will the fairies come?”
After concentrating on my own creation for several minutes, I sat in a dry spot to admire it from afar. Bright reds, greens, whites, and purples concentrated in a single vibrant point against the brown backdrop of the forest floor. Beautiful things from a vast span of woods brought into close proximity, simultaneously natural and unnatural. I wonder, will others notice my creation? Will animals interact with it? How long will it last? Does nature mind being manipulated in this way?
I remember to breathe, and smell the fresh decay of leaves and moss. I take one last look at my fairy house before starting back on the trail, and remember to take a photo. I take a few wrong turns on my way back home and end up walking much more than I planned. My trusty Blundstones are beginning to rub in that same spot I always get a blister. I continue walking with my earbuds in, lip syncing and pretending I am in a music video that only God is watching.
I frequently think about this sensation of being watched by invisible eyes; how I am perceived by natural, non-human entities, or people I know who have passed on, and since childhood I have enjoyed “performing” in some way for these unseen watchers. This might sound a little schizophrenic, but it has always been a part of who I am at my deepest core. I have always felt that all of my doings must be known to someone or something other than myself. In this way, I have always been able to find joy in isolation, maybe even more than when I am with friends. It’s more freeing, at least.
Maybe this is why I have the drive to write and share my thoughts on the internet to nobody in particular, “screaming into the void,” as it were. Anyway, I will keep posting here throughout this month. If I am still feeling uninspired tomorrow, which is likely, I may explore more methods of simple and spontaneous creativity like making fairy houses. If you’re interested, you can follow along by clicking the cute little envelope .
You’ve got the music in you, don’t forget it.
Love,
Emma