We have fun-days in math each week. Usually they’re Fridays — because of the alliteration and the opportunity to wrap up the week with some small groups. But sometimes — when Friday Funday doesn’t work out, we start the next week with Monday Funday! Love the rhyming and joy it brings.
Our Fundays — be they Fridays or Mondays — do many things. They:
allow my mighty mathematicians to engage with numbers and mathematical concepts and processes through play. This helps them grow in competence and confidence as they grow their math muscle and mindsets. (And remember, Play is Fun and Powerful!)
provide opportunities for practicing things we are working on — +1, -1, counting, greater than and less than, partner numbers, counting on, shapes, patterns, and much more — by playing games.
give choice and agency to the Kindergarten mathematicians. Sometimes they choose from a curated list of possibilities, other times the entire math center is fair game.
give me the opportunity to work with small groups while the rest of the mathematicians are engaged in productive play.
Early in the year I added two types of paper to the math center. One has dots, the other has a grid of squares. I believe the squares are 1/2 inch squares and the dots are 1/2 inches away from each other. When I added the paper, I wasn’t sure what the Kindergarten mathematicians would do with it. I was purposeful in my choices — grids and dots of this size allow for many mathematical possibilities — but I didn’t have one specific thing that I wanted them to do. Instead I gave them something that might lead them towards mathematical play and exploration. For a while, no one used the papers. Then a few used the square grid paper to create patterns.
The Friday before our winter break this happened.
They used the dots to create patterns, and they used the grid to write numbers! Oh.my.gosh! ON THEIR OWN!!! I was super excited to see this. They were practicing writing and counting. They were noticing patterns, helping one another, using their current and prior knowledge to solve new problems, and teaching me more about what they know and don’t yet know. I gathered these papers and took the picture — at these two tables, with my feet in the photo — with intention! I wanted to document their work and emphasize their curiosity. And, I wanted to emphasize my own curiosity and interest in their work, thinking, understanding, and problem solving.
These mathematicians were psyched by the work they did, and the large numbers they were able to write. The one triumphantly reported that she had written to 1000! The other wanted to write more, but wasn’t sure how to write the numbers past 109. In both instances I acknowledged their amazing work and then entered into mathematical discourse with them.
We talked a bit about what they wrote, and how they decided to write it they way they did. We wondered if it were possible that 1000 would come so soon after 100. We noticed how the numbers preceding 110 were written. We talked about what made sense and why it made sense. We worked together to figure out the conventional way to write the numerals greater than 109. We ended the way we began — celebrating our thinking and work, acknowledging our big beautiful brains and awesome hearts, honoring our courage, might, and joy as mathematicians.
Sometimes, when things seem grey, or we can’t quite see as much as we’d like, we give into fear or stress. When we experience the lack of clarity, and the feelings that come with it, we often embrace it all as truth, and begin to tell ourselves a story filled with greyness, uncertainty, and melancholy.
The good news is we can do something else.
First, we can simply breathe, be, and notice. As we sit, or stand, with open hearts, minds, and eyes, we may notice that beauty, joy, or peace are present in this space that first seemed only grey and uncertain. As we can take another breath, we can acknowledge whatever is there. If we are open to the possibility, we might even express gratitude for what is.
We may not see a blessing in front of us. We may not feel at ease or peaceful. Sitting in the moment, breathing and being open and grateful may appear to be failing us. When that happens we can reassure ourselves, no matter how we feel, it’s helping. It’s science. It’s the way we are built.
Finally, we can remind ourselves that tomorrow is another day, and we’ll get there. We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again. Tomorrow will come! And when it does, it will be different from today. Let us hold onto the hope that it will be filled with many good things.
Here’s to experiencing the beauty and gift in the grey, and soaking in the awesomeness of a new day filled with light, color, life, and joy.
I’ve been having a difficult time in one of my relationships. I’ve felt frustration, anger, disbelief, and annoyance. We need to figure out a way to resolve our disagreement, find a way to coexist, and even more so, to be our best selves together. So far, we haven’t found that sweet spot.
Yesterday, so tired of the discord and associated feelings, I remembered the loving kindness meditation practice. I pulled out my Breathe For Change manual to remind myself of the statements they suggested, and began.
I placed my hands on my heart, and connected to my breath. I used my imagination to create a space of warmth and love, where I could see myself — and even experience myself — as being safe, well, happy, and loved. I sent myself the loving kindness wishes: “May I be happy. My I be healthy. May I be safe. May I be free.” I stayed in the space for a bit, repeating the words, seeing it in my my mind, feeling it in my body, and expressing it on my face.
Our brains and minds are incredibly amazing and complex things. They allow us to imagine, create, and feel things — even things that may be different from our current reality. And, unbelievably, our brains don’t know if we’re actually experiencing it, or simply thinking about it. Years and years ago, I started saying one of Thich Nhat Hanh meditations “Breathing in I calm my body, breathing out I smile. Living in the present moment. What a wonderful moment.” It’s amazing, when I am feeling a bit off, how the simple act of smiling seems to release happiness chemicals into my brain.
So back to the loving kindness meditation.
The B4C folks added a level of imagination which I find to be fantabulously helpful. “Imagine a door opening at the bottom of each foot, and breathe whatever is not helping you out through those doors.” It’s so funny, my doors aren’t always the same doors. Sometimes they are large and grand, sometimes shaped like a hobbit door, sometimes tiny little things. I’m not sure why. But, they are always beautiful, and the thought of opening them to release the ick brings me joy.
So, I opened the doors in my feet, and imagined various things that weren’t helping me. Some of them flew out easily and seemed to become tiny flowers as they left. Other things got caught in the corners, and needed a bit more encouragement to leave.
Then I brought to mind the person with whom I’m experiencing the difficulties. I imagined them in my minds eye, and began the loving kindness meditation. First I reminded myself that, just like me, they want to be happy, safe, healthy, and free. Then I sent them loving kindness. “May you be happy. May you be safe. May you be healthy. May you be free.” I repeated it several times imagining myself actually saying it to them, and imagining them experiencing all those things.
Will this make our difficulties go away? Probably not. Will it change my brain and how I respond to this person? Will it bring me more peace and less of the angst I’ve been feeling? Will it help me to be my best self? I hope so, and I trust in the science that assures me it will.
So with another breath I use the power of my creativity to imagine possibility. With each breath, each thought, each moment of loving kindness, each choice to hope, I will bring what is possible to life.
a. a relater of anecdotes b: a reciter of tales (as in a children’s library) c. liar, fibber d: a writer of stories
I’m a bit aghast as I read the definitions.
I talk to the dictionary webpage “That’s all you have to say about storytellers? A relater of anecdotes? A reciter of tales – as in a children’s library? A fibber? A writer of stories?”
Yes, I know they are — technically — definitions of storytellers. But, in my humble opinion — with all due respect to G&C Merriam and Noah Webster — they are such pedestrian, dry, uninspiring, and perhaps even, incomplete definitions.
What is a storyteller according to me, you ask? So glad you’re wondering.
A storyteller, is: a. a wielder of power b. a connector of seemingly unconnected things c. one who deals in possibility, magic, truth, inspiration, hope. d. a teller of stories — written, spoken, shown, lived — to children and adults. e. me, and you
Are you suprised by my definitions? Are you thinking, “I’m not a storyteller. Storytelling isn’t my thing, I’m a teacher, a doctor, a parent, a crossing guard — I’m just me, I don’t tell stories.”
Ah, but it is your thing. Storytelling is our thing as humans. We are all storytellers. We craft our own stories, and we help others craft theirs.
Maybe in the place of the definition, the dictionary should just have a mirror, or the instructions: To discover what a storyteller is, find your nearest mirror and peer inside.
Still not convinced? Read on.
As you read, listen for the stories being encouraged and told.
I’m in for an MRI. I’m feeling all the classic nervous symptoms, but I’m, doing my best to use positive self-talk, prayer, and my breath as anchors to peace and hope.
I’m greeted at the door with hand sanitizer and a scanning thermometer. “Any cough, fever, recent loss of taste or smell?” “No,” I reply, adding, “Woo hoo and praise God! Have a good day.” She looks at me as though not quite sure how to respond. We make eye contact during her brief moment of hesitation. Finally she says “You, too.” before turning to the next person who has come through the door.
Arriving at imagining I’m handed paperwork to fill out. It includes a laundry list of “have you ever …” Except for the fact that I’m able to answer no to many of the questions, this doesn’t do much to assuage my anxiety. Now I wait. The only noise is the TV which fills the silence of the waiting room with less than positive banter of some news broadcast.
My name is called and the tech takes my paperwork. Looking at the paperwork rather than me, she asks me some questions as she walks quickly — ahead of me — down the hall. She points to where I am required to change out of the clothes I specifically chose to increase my sense of personal power, courage, and fantabulousness, into a significantly less than attractive, dull, hospital gown that seems to mock me by incessantly whispering “you are most certainly not well.” I quiet its voice with my new baby Yoda hat and mask. They speak to me with the optimism of the child who gifted them to me. “Keep breathing. You can do it, Ms. James. You ARE fantabulous.”
As I walk into the MRI room, my tech matter-of-factly hands me the panic button, as I lie down on the machine. She says, quite casually, “it’s going to take 35-40 minutes.” I do my best to control my voice so as not to yell at her as she disappears behind a door. “THIRTY TO FORTY MINUTES?!?!!!”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the table slides inside the remarkably small tube. I remind myself of my dad’s words as I left the house “Remember, even though it’s small, there’s plenty of room for some angels in there with you.” My tech’s voice, as though from some far off land, jolts me from that space of safety. “Ok, the first one’s going to be about 3 minutes.”
My oncologist’s office and infusion room is on the second floor. No matter how tired I am, I eschew the elevator, and head to the stairs. Today is no different.
As I start up the stairs, I unzip my coat. My eyes fall upon the hot pink superman emblem on my tech-shirt. With each step, I focus on my breathing, and repeatedly run through a set of affirmations. “I am safe. I am sound. I am well. I am whole. My body is working for optimal health. Life is good. I am good. God is greater.”
I refrain from even thinking “I’m nervous or anxious.” I’m feeling nervous and anxious – but they are most certainly not what I am. As I open the door at the top of the stairs, I borrow an affirmation from my kindergartners “I am peace.” My hand closes on the rosary in my pocket as I walk down the hall from the elevator. In the office, I laugh as I’m greeted “Good golly, Miss Molly! How are you today?”
I’m holding a plethora of cardboard tubes as some of my young Kindergarten architects and builders work to secure them with duct tape. They decided our classroom supermarket needed a door, and after studying a few, they have enlisted me — and my hands — to help with the construction.
The room is buzzing with voices and bodies, as Kindergartners do their best to move without knocking into anything, or anyone. In the corner I see two builders in some sort of power struggle. One face is angry, the other timid. Unkind words come from the angry one’s mouth. Unable to extricate myself from the door, I raise my voice to get the angry one to stop.
When my task with the door creators is done, I go check on the formerly angry and timid builders. We chat for a bit and settle the dispute that had precipitated the problem.
I then ask the owner of the formerly angry face if I might chat with her.
We find a quiet spot and sit together. I ask her if she understands why I raised my voice. “I was being mean.” she says. “Yes,” I reply, “You were.” She didn’t completely meet my gaze. I asked if she would please look at me. She did.
I proceed. “How did I sound when I spoke to you?” “Mad,” she whispers. “Yes,” I say in agreement, “and maybe even a little mean, right?” Now she is really looking at me. “I was right to ask you to stop.” I explain. “I wasn’t right to be mean when I did it. I’m sorry.”
I finally finished zipping the remarkably long zipper on my comforter-like winter coat as I walk out the door for recess. As I slip on my mittens, I notice my boots have come untied. “Drat!” I say to myself, or perhaps even out loud. I take a breath and remind myself it will only take a minute to tie them, no worries.
Out of nowhere two Kindergartners appear — eyes wide, faces glowing — “Do you want us to tie your shoes for your Ms. James? We can tie them!”
I chuckle and refrain from saying “No, that’s ok. I can do it!” Instead I smile and say “Thanks! That would be fantabulous!”
Did you notice the stories that were being told in each scenario? Not just the events themselves, but the stories being told. What stories did I tell? What stories did others tell me? What stories did I help others to hear, and hopefully, to tell? What stories did others encourage me to tell?
We tell stories by the things we think and say, the way we speak, our body language, the clothes we wear, the things we have in our spaces, the way we do or do not look at one another, the background noise we have in our environment, the relationships we encourage, and so much more. We tell stories with each little piece of our everyday lives.
Sometimes the stories we tell are very purposeful and intentional. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes we tell stories without thinking about the stories we’re telling. Sometimes — as in the case of Doug Dietz designer of MRI – we tell stories that we never intended to tell. If Doug is any example, and I think he’s a great one, that’s ok. We always have the opportunity to be intentional, and to change the stories into the ones we want to tell.
So my fellow humans, my fellow fantabulous storytellers, remember, we always tell a story. And, others always listen.
Let’s be intentional. Let’s tell the best stories possible. And, let’s help others hear, tell, believe, and live, their best stories too.
I had my 6 month infusion, and after 6 hours in the chair, I was able to ring the bell.
The infusion itself was exhausting – physically, mentally, and emotionally. And ringing the bell? That was a swirl of all sorts of emotions. I had finished at the infusion center, but my last month of at home meds started the next day. Phew.
I’ve been expecting this last month to be easy. I was mistaken.
The level of difficulty has me feeling distressed, and a tad bit guilty. Perhaps that’s a lack of humility. Or perhaps it’s a misunderstanding of the process and gravity of it all. I’m the queen of relentless positivity and possibility. That’s good — fantabulous even. But, sometimes I need to remember that the positivity and possibility are happening against a backdrop of struggle, and endurance.
Those two photos speak to me of this dicotomy.
I purposefully captured the struggle amidst the positivity in the first photo. My face is to the sun — and the Son. Simultaneously an IV is pumping a plethora of medications into my vein. That is fantabulous and awful. Fantabulous because they are helping me crush the cancer. Awful because they are pummeling my body, mind, and spirit. It’s often remarkably difficult to keep them from vanquishing me.
In the second, I am ringing the bell — indicating the end of my infusion treatment. I’m laughing with my awesome nurse, as she and others cheer me on. Immediately after, we embraced in tears. It was a moment of exhilaration, joy, and relief; as well as a moment of exhaustion, sadness, trepidation, and some disconnect.
Perhaps that sounds odd. Why wouldn’t I just be relieved and happy?
I was! But, those infusions, and those remarkably wonderful, brilliant, and caring nurses have become part of my life. There’s an intense comfort knowing those fantabulous nurses are waiting for me each time I go in. There is security knowing their expertise, and those meds they give me, are keeping me alive and helping me thrive. It’s difficult to leave them, and nearly impossible to express my depth of gratitude.
Add to that the current status of my cancer as incurable, and the emotions intensify. That nagging negative voice in the back of my head complains and points out that it’s not really the end. There will be more.
It is only now, over a week later, that I can take a breath, acknowledge the truth the voice raises, and remind it that even so, for the moment, I am done with the infusions, and that is good.
Meanwhile, I push on with my home medications. They are working their own particular magic. They press on against my cancer, giving it no rest. For that I couldn’t be more grateful. And yet, they continue to press on me as well, and that is not pleasant. Thankfully, they too will soon end, at least for this session. And that too will be a victory worth celebrating. They are no easier, and no less important than the infusions, so their conclusion shall be celebrated as well. (smile)
As I sit here with an pounding head, aching chest, and overall malaise, I chuckle thinking, “Perhaps we should all do more daily bell ringing!”
We took the time to meditate and pray? Ring a bell! We pause for some breathing and positive thoughts? Ring a bell! We see the beauty in the little things? Ring a bell! We are the recipient of unexpected kindness? Ring a bell! We have patience, and don’t crank at the person who accidentally stepped on our last nerve? Ring a bell! We notice the miracles and gifts of every day? Ring a bell! We don’t vomit — even though we feel like we might? Ring many bells! (laughter)
When my last infusion was finally finished, and my nurse excitedly said “Wait! You get to ring the bell! Give me your phone, I’ll take a photo!” I chuckled. The photographer in me thought “Where shall we take it?” I momentarily considered good backgrounds. Then my aching head and ridiculous exhaustion got the better of me, and my thoughts morphed into “Oh my gosh, let’s just take it anywhere!”
In hindsight, the background is perfect. Behind me are all the little infusion pods. Behind me are my six months of infusions.
They are behind me. Finished. At least for now.
They are behind me. Making me cancer lighter. That is miraculous
They are behind me. Exhausting me. That’s something I have to remind myself.
These 6 months have not been easy. My body, mind, and spirit have worked hard, and had more bad days than good. They have been pummeled. They are fantabulous for sure, but they are going to take a bit of time to recover. When I talked with my Dana Farber oncologist in October he said “You should be feeling great (pause) by sometime in January.”
Sometime in JANUARY?!?!?!??? Eee gads. If I recall correctly, I thought to myself “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Did he just meet me?!?!” But, now, I realize the wisdom of his words. This isn’t a little sprint. This isn’t an easy workout. This is an endurance event. And no matter how fantabulous I am, as with every endurance event there is preparation, execution, and recovery.
Now I need to respect the final push, and the recovery.
With that in mind, I remind myself this final push of medications and side effects, as well as my recovery are supported by all the things I do in the background.
Where I am, and who is there with me — in person, prayer, and spirit — matters!
How I eat supports me and all my work.
The things I do, and the ways I think, fuel me.
I always tell my Kindergartners about the importance of the struggle in our lives and learning. One year, one of them reminded me with great conviction “The struggle is real, Ms. James, and it’s important!”
Yes, my sweet, courageous, determined, girl — you are right. The struggle is real and supremely important. So too are these things. They overflow with life, energy, hope, joy, possibility, and power. They enable me to endure, survive, advance, and thrive.
So, with a big breath, I remind myself (and perhaps you) sometimes angst is just part of the process. But guilt? Guilt is inappropriate. Patience, peace, and acknowledgement of all I am, all I do, and all I have accomplished (with the help of so many) — that is appropriate. Let the bell ringing continue.
The image and letters are from some junk mail — hence they lost a bit of color as I worked with them. It’s funny how irritating I find that. And yet, it fits with the quote — erase discouragement and keep going.
The brown image behind the words is the cross section of a tree. I find trees to be some of the least discouraged individuals. If there’s a rock in the way, they work on growing around it or over it. Another tree falls on them? No problem, they adjust and grow on. And what about autumn? Each year, the trees appear to die as they drop their leaves. But even in apparent defeat they are brazenly defiant, surrendering only after putting on a spectacular show of color. And of course, come spring they burst forth in victorious life.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if we erased discouragement — not only from our dictionary but from our lives? And imagine how remarkable it would be be if we helped erase it from the dictionaries and lives of our students! Of course there will be difficulties and struggles. But, might we approach them like a tree?
“Drat a rock. That’s not what I was planning. Hmmm, how might I continue and grow, even though this rock is in my way. Ohhhh, I wonder — might I use this rock to my advantage?”
Oh my! I love this. I’m imagining all the students — and teachers — out exploring, looking for their favorite tree. What will they choose? Will they choose one that is already tall and strong? Or, might a smaller tree that is struggling speak to them? What will they notice, wonder, learn, and think? The opportunities for growth, and the possibilities for curriculum integration, social emotional learning, and STEAM related activities are unending.
BE LIKE A TREE Speak the truth. This rock’s in my way. Acknowledge the dilemma and feeling. This wasn’t the plan. This might not be easy. Ugh. Speak more truth. I want to ______. Think creatively, and explore possibility. What might I do now? Is all lost? What do I know? What have I learned? Embrace my strength and keep going.
It’s a beautiful quiet morning. The breeze is cool and lovely, and everything feels like gift.
As I sit, I notice a bird on the power line, silhouetted against the morning sun. I grab my phone and take a few photos. Intrigued by the images, and chasing the perfect one, I take a few more.
It may seem silly to pay so much attention to birds sitting on a power line. Really, what’s the draw?
At first the draw was art and possibility. The birds seemed like a perfect subject, with great possibilities for pen, pencil, or watercolor.
With each photo, I noticed more and more, and as I did, curiosity, wonder, awe, and delight joined the party.
The sun was bright white, and at first the scene appeared black and white to me. But, as I studied the photographs I took, I noticed blue. Blue?! I gazed upwards at the actual scene. Sure enough, there it was.
I took one more shot, and was gifted with the moon!
At some point, connection and making meaning rounded out my morning party.
Curiosity, wonder, delight, and awe have been my constant companions these past few days. They’ve been filling my thoughts as I make art, and popping up in my research and reading as a colleague and I construct new curriculum. This morning they were present like faithful friends, encouraging me to photograph, study, consider, and enjoy these birds on the wire.
And, speaking of faithful friends — birds! They tweet their remarkable voices in the woods while I walk, and in the yard while I sit. They flit in and out of the garden, and even venture bravely onto the porch near my chair. And, just the other day, they blessed my art world in this Art Tool-kit video on sketching birds, and this remarkable resource by John Muir Laws.
When I first noticed the bird perched on the line this morning, I grabbed his image for the artistic possibilities. I thought he might fly off, and I’d miss the moment. But he stayed, and was joined by friends.
I’ve been working on breathing, and trusting life and God during these unusual days of the pandemic. That work, the birds continued presence, and my peaceful noticing, brought to mind the great spiritual His Eye is On the Sparrow, and the scripture of how important the small and seemingly insignificant sparrows are to God.
Birds, photos, and stories. I love when everyday things come together to tell a story.
I am held, seen, and heard. I am loved. Beauty is always present. Hope is always warranted. There is always more. More joy, more surprise, more awe, More beauty, more possibility, more reason to hope. Look for the more. It is here. Expect it. Accept it. Live it.
There are endless stories to tell. Make them good ones.
In the March/April 2019 Ideas Issue of Good Grit, Brad says his workshop is “the kind of space where if someone comes to work with us, they would feel like anything is possible.” How awesome is that?
I love that idea, and this cover shot. It makes me smile and chuckle — but it’s also super profound right? Anything is possible. Grab hold of your dream — and your trusty colander — and make it happen!
My thoughts immediately go to my students. I can see us — goggles on, capes flapping behind us, dripping with jewels, multiple bags on each arm — laughing out loud as we run to join Brad in his time traveling machine. I revel in the joy I see on our faces. Then my thoughts turn to the makerspace where we turn ordinary objects into extraordinary inventions. And finally, I see us sitting together in reading groups — eyes wide with amazement as they read!
One of the practices Rosamund and Benjamin Zander suggest in their book The Art of Possibility is stepping into a universe of possibility. What if all educators worked to create a space in their minds and hearts, as well as in their physical learning space, where anything is possible and miracles happened every moment of the day? What if we created universes of possibility for ourselves and our students?
It would be amazing and world changing!
But how? How do we create universes of possibility that others can feel? We can’t just say it’s a universe of possibility where anything is possible, we have to work to make it a reality. Our choice of words, classroom design, norms, agreements, rules, and beliefs have to support everyone in the universe of possibility. We need to believe it’s true, and then speak and act in a way to make it real for others.
I’m thinking what that might look like for me.
Model curiosity. Engage in conversation. Listen. Wonder. Marvel at ideas and give them a go. Even, and especially, the ideas of a 5-6 year old. Laugh. Collaborate. Make mistakes. Use, and teach, “How Fascinating!” Explore. Investigate. Think. Problem-find. Problem-solve. Be creative. Be teachable. Learn. Regularly engage in What if? moments with myself and my students! Believe the best about others. Help others see and believe the best about themselves. Radiate positivity. Speak from a mindset of abundance. Speak of beauty and goodness. Be grateful. Invite others to join in.
And what if we didn’t just create that space in our classroom? What if we created universes of possibility fin our everyday lives? Again, amazing, and world changing!
Is my life a universe of possibility? Yes. I am the Queen of Possibility.
Do I always live in that knowledge? No. Sometimes I forget I live in a Universe of Possibility, and get mired in the slog that the day brings me.
Clearly, even as the Queen, I can deepen my practice of believing, speaking, and living possibility.
So, the universe of possibility I’m working on today.
Cancer? A cure is possible. Side effects? No problem, I can manage. The pandemic? Brilliant creative people are working on a vaccine and treatment. Prayerful people are praying them closer to it. It can end. People hating and being less than human to one another? We can choose to love and be kind. We can make a difference. Experiencing stress? I can breathe, pray, nutraceutical up, and move through it. My washer and drier are old and hanging on with a thread? They can continue to work. And, if they need to be replaced, I can stay safe and comfortable in the process. Feeling small in the face of it all? God is greater. God is generous. God is trustworthy. Hope? Always good to have, and never disappoints. Joy? Absolutely. Possibility? Everywhere.
And, thanks to my good friend, Jojo, I can leave you with one of my favorite Universe of Possibility creating quotes.
When nothing is sure, everything is possible. (Margaret Drabble, The Middle Ground).
I breathe best in a space of imagination, curiosity, creativity, possibility, hope, peace, joy, and faith. In some way, my breath supports each one, and each one supports my breath. In an equally powerful way, each moment of imagination, curiosity, possibility, hope, creativity, peace, joy, and faith, grows from, and feeds each other.
IMAGINATION is a mighty force. Sometimes it seems like a playground in my mind.
CURIOSITY often produces a laugh, entices me to exploration, and calls to my creativity.
CREATIVITY (thinking and doing) is looking with new eyes, open to the surprise, uniqueness, and possibility.
POSSIBILITY (thinking and being), is for me, the food of hope, peace, and joy.
HOPE, PEACE, and JOY are everything. They keep me going, and help me impact my world (inside and out) in positive ways.
FAITH – in myself, others, God, things larger than myself, the process, imagination, curiosity, creativity, possibility, hope, peace, and joy – makes it all possible. It encourages me to try when it seems I cannot, to believe when I do not, and to take another breath, and just be.
The other day, as I finished up my 9 hour infusion, a little loopy, and frankly, a little desperate. I didn’t feel like I had imagination, curiosity, creativity, possibility, hope, peace, joy, and faith, but none-the-less, I reached for them, and thankfully they were there!
I hadn’t brought much with me, just a small notebook, and a pen. What could I do with that?
I could occupy my mind and my hands, and fold an origami crane and a simple rectangular box.
I tore out a page, ripped it in half, and began to create. I made one of each. Then I took out another page. I decorated the page before I ripped it in half and folded another.
My breath eased a bit.
They say if you fold a 1000 paper cranes wishes come true, luck, and hope abound.
I say, 2 cranes and two paper boxes, folded with imagination, curiosity, possibility, hope, creativity, peace, joy, faith, and simple presence, might hold the same power. I took a photo to keep with me, and left the cranes, boxes, and any good they hold, for someone else to find.
My brother and I got out for walk in nature, and I PAINTED!!!
I sat quietly, enfolded in the sounds and sights of nature. But, something in me rejoiced loudly “YAY!!! II’m sitting by the water, and I’m painting!!! All is right with the world”
It was a remarkably beautiful, and emotional few moments. I’m not sure I can express how lovely it is to sit by a river, with my watercolors, a fresh piece of paper, a paint brush, and some water (often from the river itself).
I know creativity isn’t the same thing as art. But, sometimes art gives me the opportunity to indulge in my love for creativity and creative thinking. Art sharpens my ability to be open to possibility and think differently — How might I express with the paint what I see with my eyes? How might I use the water, or the vegetation, or the wind as part of my process? Is there something new I might try? What if I expressed it in shades of black and white rather than color?
Strangely, COVID gives me more opportunities to think creatively as well. How might I feel comfortable sitting and painting? Where can we find a place to actually sit? If I have to stand, how might I use what is around me to hold my paint and water? Might I wonder and entertain all the possible things that might go right, instead of the things that might go wrong?
We humans have a negativity bias – keeps us safe – but I think sometimes for creatives our ability to problem find and imagine possibilities works against us. Well, I’ll speak for myself. Sometimes it works against me. Remember I said the moment was emotional? It was emotional because of the beauty, joy, and peace I felt. It was emotional because it was one of the first moments I have not felt afraid being out of doors doing something normal.
Yesterday I painted by the river.
Today I knitted.
Life is good.
These artistic endeavors soothe my soul. They teach me to look, notice, and wonder. They encourage me to be in the moment, open to possibility, even when it seems elusive.
I am a creative. It is part of who I am. I think I was born with the ‘I love noticing, thinking, creating, and figuring things out’ gene. Or perhaps, I don’t have that gene, but simply was blessed with parents who raised me to notice, think, create, and figure things out. Either way, here I am.
Yes, I am a creative. Each day gifts me with opportunities to increase my understanding of creativity and creative thinking, challenges that strengthen my creative confidence, and moments that urge me to consider possibilities. As I write this I am reminded of the Mary Anne Radmacher quote ““… sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”
If I might be bold enough to allow her quote to speak to me and inspire me about creativity, I would rephrase it like this — often creativity is the quiet voice at the end of the day, that, looking at opportunities untaken, or problems as yet unsolved, says “I will sleep on it tonight and will try again tomorrow.”
May we always treasure and nurture that small voice.