Keeping current in wellness, in and out of the water
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The long trek to the remote village has exhausted the group. The backpacks grew heavy as they walked for miles in the woods. They had all come to be part of a writers’ retreat designed to spark creativity. The accommodations in the country were intended to take the group away from day to day concerns in order to concentrate on writing. Most of them came from big cities and were not accustomed to primitive conditions. They were told they would need to pump water and carry wood, but this sounded more romantic at the time than it was when they started scouting for fire wood in the wet forrest. The rain had drenched the woods, so all the wood was too wet to start a fire. They had no wilderness skills, and were weary and wasted before they even started the weekend. The emotions were tightly wound before they even saw the bunk beds in the attic where they would sleep, dormitory style.
On Saturday morning they awoke to find no staff at the summerhouse. There was a sign left on the screen door that said, “We have gone to town. Now you go to town.” This naturally infuriated the writers who had come to be taught some kind of creative trick to unlock their talent. “Go to town? What the hell does THAT mean?” Left to their own devices, they scattered into space to figure out what to do. Sitting under the shade of a large oak tree Emily spotted Eric. He was wearing a velvet coat, leaning against the trunk of the tree, casually smoking a pipe. She approached him with caution, but when she clearly saw his handsome face she was instantly smitten by this stranger in the woods. She wondered why he was so calm, cool, and dressed like a person from a different century. He explained that these woods are haunted with the ghosts of writers who never pushed themselves beyond their limits. They are the real ghost writers. They can never be free because they dissed their muse while they were alive.
When Emily awoke back in New England in the 21st century she knew she had just met destiny in a dream. Her muse, Eric, would be her greatest asset, and it did not matter that nobody else could see him. He was hers alone. He faithfully pushed her to work with words every day. Their tryst was a gift from the creative creator of creation, and would last forever and ever.
Writing, music, art, and cuisine are integrated into my daily routine. I am inspired by creative projects of all kinds. I hope my study and practice keeps life fresh and stimulating. I am comfortable writing facts and stating my own opinions. I adore investigating my family tree because I constantly learn about history in a direct and personal way when I discover more facts about my ancestors. I also imagine myself inheriting some spark of talent from each and every one of them. I wish I knew more about the kinds of arts they might have pursued during their lives.
In April I join poets around the world to write 30 poems in 30 days. During the rest of the year I am a sporadic poet, and feel a tinge of guilt about it. This week I will go to a reading at our world-famous U of A Poetry Center. The theme for this series is poetry and climate change. The poets present in an ideal setting for the purpose, then answer questions posed by the audience. The caliber of the talent is outstanding. We are lucky to have this presented to the public here free of charge as part of the Poetry Center’s ongoing work. When I go to the center, either for a reading or to read part of the amazing collection, I feel extra guilt. My famous ancestor poet, Mistress Bradstreet, is represented in the collection. She wrote in colonial Massachusetts and wonders why I am not more prolific as a poet. Life as well as writing were not easy for her because the 1600’s were far less care free for women. She managed to crank out poems that told about historic events of the time in the language of the time. She thinks I should do the same, especially since I have all these electronic devices and twitter. She had nothing so convenient.
I have no real excuse to give to her. When I get into the practice of it I enjoy being a poet. I especially like to hang out with other poets, all of whom are better and more thoughtful then I am. Perhaps the reading this week will prime my poetic pump. Synesthesia is one of my daily goals in life. To create fusion of the senses, then mix them all into memory in order to make them verbal is a fun practice of self discovery. Poetry and music lend themselves to capturing the essence of sensory experience. I am not sure why I don’t do it all the time.
What do you like to do to employ your native creativity, gentle reader? Did you inherit any of your artistic talents (of which you are aware)?