I tend to start each New Year feeling extra creative. I've been reading some interesting books so far this month, the sort that feed into that creative spirit. Currently I am deep into Secrets of the Zona Rosa by Rosemary Daniell. Just before that I read The Age of Miracles: Embracing the New Middle by Marianne Williamson. Both books are inspiring and have had fabulous nuggets of wisdom, but both also have a "new agey" bent that makes me roll my eyes sometimes. Sprinkled throughout have been sections about how to heal ones past in order to tap into ones creative depths, and it's left me feeling like I've missed some boat I shouldn't have, because I don't have old wounds to overcome. My biggest childhood trauma was the Sunday evening my mother made me stay in my room until I could apologize to my big brother for biting him on the knee (and drawing blood!) Note: I was forced to bite him because he intentionally sat in "my" spot just to vex me, then wouldn't move when I demanded he must because I has previously "hosied" that seat. I was missing Walt Disney World while in "time out" and in hysterics because I didn't know what "apologize" meant. Surely that counts for some sort of anguish that will now allow me to be a creative being. Or not.
I can't tap into the hating-men method of digging into my creative depths, either, because I don't. I had a doting grandfather and a kind father. I adore my big brother (despite the scar on his knee.) I had nice boyfriends, have great male friends and there is a list of female friends who claim they will be my husbands date to my funeral, then keep him company and be glad I'm gone.
As I start the year with the intention of doing some creative projects, I am beginning to suspect that my charmed life is an encumbrance.
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