OK. So clearly someone "post-Christian" doesn't observe Lent strictly religiously, as a preparation for Easter. But the imprint of the Church year remains strong, part of the rhythm of my life. And for the first time in years, I feel a clear leading to give something up.
I was the only "creative" person in my family. In fact, my mother had rejected her mother's painting, designing, knitting and rug-hooking, and was, I fear, extremely uncomfortable with my creativity and musicality. Dad had no creative or hobby interests. By and large, my brothers were into the out-of-doors (hiking, skiing, bicycling and sailing), although Andrew would become quite a fine photographer. But overall, in my family and among friends, I was "the creative one." Many of you know the feeling, always being asked to make cards or write silly poems or draw diagrams or maps because, "You're the one who can do all these things."
Oddly (given my parents' overall lack of interest in the arts), I think I equated my creativity with "worth," and thought somehow if they (and by extension, the world) could see my beautiful creations, they would find me worthy to be on the planet. And yet, decades of organ recitals, embroidered or painted gifts, and music and art degrees went by with barely a, "That's nice dear." How much I was doing anything for its own sake, and how much in a frenzied attempt to prove my worth, I don't know.
And in this last decade, there has been something of the same quality to my (decidedly creative!) efforts to get back to England and the world of English church music. I don't have to prove to myself that this is the core of my being. But maybe if I got into such-and-such a choir, or sang at such-and-such a cathedral, or began to be recognized as a Howells scholar, I would finally be seen, respected, embraced. I would be "worthy." Yet I'm still in America, still living on nearly nothing, still feeling invisible all around. While I don't doubt the value of my skills and their results, I am questioning whether my 60 years of creativity have been done from the right inner place, how much my various efforts have helped anyone else, and whether this sort of creativity has been, in fact, the highest skill set I was meant to use in this lifetime.
These last six weeks or so, I've done a lot of writing and some desultory art and design. Creativity is still my instinctive default as I travel my path. But there is something so stale about my creative energy right now. Perfunctory, unenthusiastic.
So on Ash Wednesday, two days from now, I will put aside all creative materials, even pen and paper. I will release the need to write, journal, blog, paint, collage, sing, or even creatively problem solve. I do have reservations about putting my book on hold. Eight months of hard work has brought me within shouting distance of the end of it, but my gut tells me my Lenten creativity "fast" will teach me something important that I need to know before finishing the project.
Will I twiddle my thumbs? Will I watch too much TV? Will I take up bird watching? Where will my creative energy get channeled? I don't know. All I know is that if an impulse feels "creative" in the traditional sense of the word, I will politely thank it and ask it to wait "forty days and forty nights."
And sometime the week after Easter, I will let you know what has happened. In a strange way, creativity has been a heavy mantle. I feel lighter already.
