Of Children and Creators
It was a day when time stood still.
Little green army men and GI Joes. Epic battles for days. Or what seems like days. The battle field spread across acres of gravel and broken glass and bottle caps and pop tops (It was the 70’s. There were still pop tops in those days). It’s summer. There’s sweat and dirt and blood.
But there are also cowboys. And horses. The great and wild frontier. Deep caverns in the ground, dug by hand. The layers of dirt and sweat extend.
I can still hear the sing-song way my Mom calls me in. It doesn’t matter where in the neighborhood I am. In the driveway, in the ally, up a tree in my neighbors yard. (She didn’t mind us climbing her trees. At least she never let on, if she did.)
I look up blinking. Realizing for the first time in hours that the sun is low and recognizing the fact I’m hungry. The battle is over. The army men go in a box to recover until the next day.
That’s how kids roll.
Time stands still every day.
Creativity needs a similar ethos.
Creativity needs a place to play. To dig holes. To play in the dirt. To sweat. To lose herself in herself and the world she’s created.
It could be writing. It could be sculpting. It could be creating tattoos.
It doesn’t matter.