Do What You Have in Mind
As a creative person, I’ve cultivated a sensitivity toward what I call the "creative spark"—it comes and goes, seemingly, as it pleases, often at inopportune times like in the shower, on a run, or in traffic. My job is to notice it—to drop everything and grab a pen or a guitar as fast as I can when it comes.
Maybe this is how creativity should work and maybe it’s not. But it’s been my practical experience for forty-some years. For most of my life, this creative spark and I have had a pretty good working relationship. But for the past five years things have started to get a little "backed up," so to speak.
My “inopportune time” has become an entire season of life and I feel ashamed of how many perfectly good sparks have come and gone without my grabbing a pen or a guitar.
This season has, on its face, had to do with money and responsibility. Kids to keep fed, a mortgage to keep paid, property to keep maintained, lights to keep on, and water to keep running... so much pressure to make sure everything keeps on going. And an even bigger pressure building somewhere deep inside me, to not fail.
My fear of failure has 10x more fuel today than it did when our kids were babies and our house was cheap. And as the fire of fear has grown within me, the alarms have blared and my creative self has instinctively stepped aside and held its breath. For five years.
When a child feels safe, they play. When a danger comes, the child stops playing. They hold their breath.
This is true for all of us. It’s by design, to keep us alive. And it works. But only as a short-term solution. It is not meant to be a permanent way of being.
What happens when a child pauses play for an entire season—perpetually waiting, holding their breath for a time when all threats are gone, and they can finally feel safe to play again?
For many of us, this is just called this "adulthood."
Now, I don't mean to bash being a responsible adult. Sometimes we just have to do what we have to do. To have the conversation. To sell this to buy that. To give up immediate gratification for something ultimately more important to us. But recognizing and making those decisions when needed is not the same as resigning one's self to a default of always choosing what seems more “responsible,” and less alive.
Eventually, the feelings of excitement we used to categorize as "fun" become scary and uncomfortable, and acting like a "responsible adult" becomes a new, safe default.
One thing I've learned raising kids for the past 20 years is that what I say to them effects them about 1/100th as much as what I say to myself.
And then question arises: who am I really doing this for? Am I really sacrificing for my children, or am I sacrificing for a feeling that everything is going to be okay? And what is it, really, that is being sacrificed if the end result is an uneventful life where nothing terrible happened, but nothing very exciting did either? Is that really what I want—for me or my children?
A child that plays. That is the most beautiful thing. That is what has led to everything good we have as humans. That is what I want for my children—not for them to never experience fear or uncertainty or even pain, but for them to experience—often, as a regular part of life—the thrill of creating something that is uniquely and authentically them.
How can I give this to my children? Only by giving it to myself.
This is also the way I can give it to everyone around me.
What if our next season of growth doesn’t require more sacrifice? What if long hours and holding our breath are no longer keys to a good future, but are shackles that chain us to our past?
What if our future requires something new of us? Something we’re not accustomed to, yet is a very true, deep part of each of us?
What if our future requires us to (re)learn how to play.
When a child senses danger, they stop playing and hold their breath...
I have been conditioned to check my bank account to see if everything is okay. If the bills are paid and the kids have food and shoes, everything is okay. If my likes, follows, streams, and pats-on-the-back are coming, everything is okay. If everyone else is okay, everything is okay.
But after nearly twenty years of being a parent, and 46 years of being a person, I am finding that I can do everything "right" and still my bank account goes empty, my kids go disappointed, and no one seems to be singing my praises.
At the end of the day, I can not make sure everything will be okay.
So I find myself in a perpetual state of limbo. Longing to live a life authentic to who I am; waiting until I can be sure that everything will be okay before I release my authentic voice. Longing to take my next step; waiting for a clear sign that I will not fail.
I’ve attributed my fear to life's growing complexities and responsibilities, but I think it’s more realistically just due to me getting older. More life lived, more kids, more dreams, more to maintain... and more to lose. More ways to fail. And I’m getting kind of used to just hunkering down and trying to keep everything together.
Do I still remember how to play?
Creativity used to seem like a practical issue only for professional artists, since it’s their job to play, but today it's clear that creativity is a human issue. We have never been where we are today or where we're going; creativity is the only practical way forward.
We are standing at a door.
Walking through this door means entering a whole new way to live and work—where creativity and intuition lead culture, and where playing despite apparent risk is the value a human brings to market.
We walk through this door at the expense of our sense of certainty and familiarity. It’s terrifying step—like stepping out into the vastness of space or the ocean. But that’s also what makes it an exciting adventure.
How does this look for me today? I suppose it looks like sitting down and writing the damn next book, or at least the next chapter. Or pressing record on the next album. For you it's something totally different, but it is probably the thing that just came to mind. These are our tasks; they are probably near the bottom of our endless task-list, if they've made the cut at all. And while it might feel foolish to move these tasks to the top, there is a deep part of us that knows that's where they belong.
Being human is foolishness in the eyes of anyone other than humans. Just like the play of a four-year-old is foolish. Or the paintings of Picasso are foolish. Or the Declaration of Independence is foolish. Naive. Childish.
But who are we trying to impress, anyway?
We’ve just invented a tool that can do all the regurgitating we could ever do, 24/7, forever and ever. So that’s like most of our jobs, taken. Are we going to see that as a threat, or an open door?
Everything familiar seems to be eroding, and the chances of failure at whatever we do next—"safe" or not—are pretty close to 100% given how little we know about what’s around the bend…
So we might as well just go ahead and do the thing we really have in mind.