Weaving the Creative Life

Crawling my way out of a migraine-induced stupor, I came across two blog posts that stood on opposite sides of the fence. Both right in their thought processes and both right where I am.

I am stopped, worried that the big creative block is standing guard at my door, and making arguments in my head about just walking out the door anyway.

I give myself the 2 minutes it takes to pull out the bag, click the shutter and decide to spend 5 more minutes uploading pixels before the drive to work. These minutes are luxury to me–a thick slice of chocolate cake drowning in ganache.

I step from the small square of light into the flood of daylight outside my door. If there was a guard at the door, he was slacking on his duties. The air was fresh and I was daydreaming of a day full of sunshine, photo editing, and maybe, somehow, paint and a canvas. I refused to look at the time to keep the bickering voices at bay for the rest of my walk.

I may not have gotten to lie in green grass and gather moments like dandelions in a 3 year olds hand. I may not have an hour to claim with a pen. What I didn’t do is only half the story.

I did play with my hair. I hiked around the loop in the afternoon sunshine. I did take the picture that I saw in the lens of my own vision. I did choose to come back here and share my small story because it is a strand woven into the fabric of my being. Writing it here is a way of tucking it in tight with all of the others.

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