Dear Creativity, I’m thinking about breaking up with you!

It is cold this morning -2 says my phone. Even the laptop feels chilled as I type to you.

What happened— to Fall? To us? 

It seems like we are drifting in different directions. I consciously want to focus more on being of benefit to people with my feelings and words, and you seem to be drawing me in the opposite direction, into personal drama and un-relatable topics and selfishly spent hours in front of a glowing screen, that eventually leads to headaches. I want to reach out and open my heart and mind and make space for love, friendship, community, and service– maybe a relationship or dating and you seem to be drawing me in, shutting me off. My body hurts this morning. Moon pain has me hot and emotional, as I write to you. So maybe it isn’t you. Maybe it is me and I am being menstrually, melodramatic. Maybe we are fine and I just can’t see the truth through the hormonal haze that currently sits around me. I am willing to entertain that possibility. 

Pug snores from the shaggy sheepskin want to pull me into a trance on the opposite end of the spectrum from the aches shooting through my belly-bowl and legs. Moon pain is no different than any other pain. Pain is both a form of trance and a message, often one we don’t want to hear. It is either hard to focus through the pain, or the pain sharpens focus, not unlike my old friend The Banshee, my inner critic. With her sharp nails and relentless howls for perfection, she is really a long lost feral child that is just afraid of being left behind. Maybe that is what is happening with us, maybe I am afraid you are leaving me behind or I am leaving you behind or the real root of both fears– I am leaving myself behind— again. 

Sadness seeps in, as unfriendly as the chill that creeps under the edges of my nubby blue blankie. Sadness. Sad. Maybe I have lost the ability to touch others with my words. Maybe we are actually in one of those relationships where we are pulling too much into each other, isolating in our so-called love and not actually bringing anything of benefit to the world. 

This begs the question to be asked, should we break-up?

I feel raw terror at the possibility of living my life without you! 

Thinking about the droves of humanity driving themselves to unearned graves, every day through hordes of traffic, numbing out to pop music, pop culture and lives wrapped in plastic—unbearable sadness washes through me. The thought of that life makes me even sadder than how I feel right now, in this moment, with you. Sometimes you do not give me the attention I want. Sometimes you ask too much. Sometimes I feel like nothing I do is good enough. Sometimes I feel like I can do no wrong. Sometimes I feel manic in the waves of your love, so open so full of life and passion and purpose. Sometimes I feel like I want to crawl under my covers and never come out. Never open my laptop again. Never pick up a pen again. Never write another word—again.

Funny…that is always when I turn to you. I may wallow for a moment. I may stomp around for a few. I may cry or go for a walk as well but more than likely, I will first turn to you. Pick up the pen and write. The truth is—I cannot imagine my life without you. You are as natural to me as breathing and I can only hold my breath for a few minutes before my body forces my mouth open and air rushes into my lungs, pumping my heart filling me with life. I have tried to hold you at bay before. Tried to numb and be normal, whatever that means and it nearly killed me. So if I die with you, I die in passion. If I live with you, I live in your service. If we break up— I will live but a half life, wandering as a shade through shopping malls and other cramped places that match how sad and cramped and lifeless my insides feel without you. No. That. Won’t. Do. 

Sapphire sparkles clean and bright and there is a faint rainbow-ring, round the sun. Icicles cling to my roof, dripping. These words come from you. These words send chills through my body and like two lovers after a spat, I can feel myself making up with you. You say so little today. You say so much. Green leaves still cling to the trees, no wonder—the calendar says it’s still Fall, though the temperature says otherwise. I find myself falling for you again and again. Naked. Covered in snow. I love naked trees, love drawing them, love tracing the lines of their lizard-like bark. Love looking at the patterns their branches make against the brilliant-blue sky. Love the contrast of the snow on their dark skin. Would I even notice this without you? Tiny diamonds in the snow sparkle, real jewels that could easily be melted by noon tomorrow, the weather here can be as mercurial as my own moods. Piles made up of tiny perfect individuals, all unique, indistinguishable in the drifts but so exquisite when examined closely. 

This is what you are to me. You are the thing that makes me unique. When pulled from the piles and held up for scrutiny, I shimmer and shine and will, indubitably melt. When left with the other hordes of minuscule crystalline beings, I may disappear or I may sparkle and catch an eye or two. Amidst my community, I can create an avalanche! I can reshape the world with others, maybe. No maybe—it must be so. 

Dearest Creativity, we can make a difference, after all.  Maybe you are that teacher who does not hand out gold stars but who circles every single word I write in red and says, “You can do better.”