Use It or Lose It

If you know me well, you must suspect that this post is about exercise. It's not. Though it's a well-known fact that we must continue to use our body or lose some of its functions, in this post I am referring to creativity. I recently read (in an article that I clipped for reference and then lost at the hairdresser's) that creativity stops developing in the brain at about the age of twelve. If we don't continue to exercise that mental muscle, we are frozen at a twelve-year-old's capacity.

Children do have great imaginations, and it's not awful to have a tween's inventiveness, but what a loss if we do not take our creativity beyond that point, if we can't develop our interests in art or music or writing past a seventh grade perspective. When I read the article I felt a zing of its truth. I have blogged before that my own creative ambitions towards poetry and writing stopped by the beginning of high school, when recognition and rewards went to the best essay, research paper, or grammar exercises. My creative juices have been frozen for several decades; I put them in deep freeze while I raced from task to task on my agenda. Maybe it's time to thaw them out - and then drink that kool-aid.

Time to rewrite the script. I'm assigning myself the job of writing and research, and clearing my plate for the next year so that I can develop those muscles. If I died tomorrow, that's the one big regret I would have - that I stopped pursuing the creative dreams at age twelve. I hope my readers find time to do the same for their own creative endeavors. The world needs all our points of view, our cumulative flights of fancy and colorful aspirations.  Cheers to seeing what creativity looks like from the age of forty and beyond!

Viral Musings

I woke up two days ago with a left eye the color of pink lemonade, a goopy pillow case, and a voice like the menacing secretary from Monsters, Inc. - low, scratchy and sinister-sounding (Mom, Dad, that's why I haven't called - sorry!) Just pile the enterovirus on the bandwagon of things to do this last week of school along with award ceremonies, retirement parties, thank you gifts, practices and games. This morning Aden asked "What exciting thing we were doing tonight?" ready to get dressed up for the third time in a week and present a project, receive an award, or party.

Fortunately we don't have anything this evening, but we did enjoy a lovely 8th grade awards ceremony yesterday at the kids' middle school. Aden received an ASPIRE award from her eighth grade core teachers for exemplifying school values and also an award for being on the honor roll all 12 quarters. Many of the neighborhood girls and boys were recognized, too, so it was a special hour in the fine arts auditorium at Creek, where they will all start high school in August.

I described the scene to Rob when the kids were at swim practice, and after discussing our daughter's accomplishments, I heard myself whine, "I used to be smart, too. I used to win awards like that!" Rob heroically through himself into the void and insisted that I was still smart.  But I'm not - not in the same way. I used to understand electricity and magnetism, factor polynomials, run science experiments and conduct research products. Now the aging hard drive is too full of schedules, grocery lists, recipes and therapies - it's rebooted and erased much of what I used to know.

That's why I sit here writing - clinging to the last slightly academic activity that I can perform. I've vowed to make more time to write this summer, though I don't know yet where the time will come in long summer days with kids. Add to lack of empty hours my fear of unproductively sitting still, and the task of writing looms like the Warped Wall from American Ninja Warrior . But for now I'll table the task, take my antivirals and go muse with closed eyelids on the couch.

A Memorial Day Poem

Winston Churchill sent this poem to Franklin Roosevelt to inspire him. A fitting tribute to those who face fears and sacrifice personal hopes and dreams for the benefit of the many, so those who come after can inherit that 'bright land.' Remembering all those who struggled for our country on this Memorial Day.

Arthur Hugh Clough. 1819–1861

741. Say not the Struggle Naught availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;	5
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,	10
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!	15
But westward, look, the land is bright! http://www.bartleby.com/101/741.html

First World Problems

Our orange tiger - kitty, Rex, got into a snit the last two days because no one was home to play with him, and he up-ended his recycling water dish three times, to the detriment of the wooden floor and the electrical mechanism in his dish. As I filled a washing machine with wet towels, Aden and I joked over what a first-world problem it was:  "our pet cat tipped over his personal water fountain." Can you imagine trying to explain that to a refugee fleeing Africa?  Or the fact that I 'labored' to fill our high efficiency washing machine with plush towels so they could be washed, rinsed and spun in 30 minutes?  Hardly a heavy issue.

Then I got on a kick and started looking at the challenges of this month from the same perspective: our crazy May calendar full of concerts, athletic events, thank you gifts and award banquets - nerve-wracking to a parent of three but full of fun activities that our sponsored students in Guatemala would love to schedule somewhere between walking to and from school and helping their families with hard labor.

A messy kitchen overflowing with colorful flyers for picnics, field trips and parties, a living room littered with musical instruments (piano, trumpet, guitar, recorders), an office holding books and technology.  You get the picture .  .  . what amazing good fortune to have any of it, and to have a family to share it with.

Being grateful doesn't shrink my to - do list, doesn't shorten the list of thank you notes to write and gifts to purchase, but it does change the recording in my head from frustrated to fulfilled, from dutiful to delighted. As I reflect on our many opportunities I actually get impatient to express my thanks and joy for the people who have filled this school year with growth and happiness for my children and for Rob and me.

Recent Funnies

Several interactions have tickled my funny bone in recent weeks and I wanted to record a bit of self-deprecating humor here for your Monday enjoyment.

1. Upon wearing a nightshirt to bed in place of boxer shorts and a t-shirt, Daniel fixed me with narrowed eyes. "Are you going to have another kid?" he asked, eyeing the loose fabric around my middle. What I thought: God forbid! What I said, "Oh no, honey, these are just new pajamas." The kid is worse than TMZ!

2. Upon visiting a new acupuncture specialist and Chinese medicine doctor, who assessed my tongue, muscle-tested my addiction to sugar, and flipped me face-down for a therapeutic treatment: "I'm going to leave now for twenty-nine  minutes. I would tell you to keep your mind blank, but I know that you won't. I know that you will instantly jump to your schedule for Saturday and run through the to - do list, fixating on what can't be done. So instead, I'm going to have you count to ten, over and over again until I return. Here's a panic button in case you need to get up."  
     And he doesn't even know me! Is every woman in the United States in frenzied May-hem mode or is my racing mind and elevated heart rate just a dead-giveaway for a reforming type A personality? And a panic button - sheesh. I've only needed that once before . . . .

3. Upon visiting the chiropractor (yes, I need a lot of help) and talking again about the chocolate addiction: "You don't have to give it up cold turkey. You could just have it one day a week. Or you could just do what my wife does and have four chocolate chips per night. There isn't too much sugar in four chocolate chips."
     FOUR chocolate chips?!  Who on earth can stop at four? And just one day per week? How about forty chips every other day? Or just forgetting about it entirely and staying on the 3 oz / day schedule?  He definitely does not know me - a woman who cleans the kitchen floor and table with lysol wipes, but who regards pieces of old chocolate found on those surfaces as buried treasure. Just this morning I ate an old sliver of peanut butter cup found in the grout between our kitchen counter tiles. Four days old, but DEEE-licious.

Time to go make a gluten-free, dairy-free cake for William's birthday. My little football baby is twelve years old today, strong and healthy and happy and loved - thank God. Can't wait to celebrate with him and the rest of the family tonight - and don't tell, but I just might have more than four crumbs of cake.