Trust in Creativity: Start with What’s Wrong

Today’s blog post started as a free writing exercise and turned into an important discovery (or discoveries) I don’t think I am finished with this piece of writing. The final sentence is so potent I need to step away for a few hours.

Art and the creative process works this way sometimes.

Often the most significant “work” happens when we let go of the reins and allow what we hadn’t even begun to hope for winds its way through us.

I am not editing the free flow writing I wrote because I feel like there is someone who will read this who needs to follow the meandering.

I would appreciate you commenting about what resonates from this exercise and perhaps, how an exploration in trust may help you as well. Maybe I am the only creative person who has this issue, and somehow.. I doubt it. Also, if you aren’t comfortable commenting, you may always reach out to me directly.

Here we go: 

Trust: oh, how I have struggled with thee.

I need a good epigraph. I found the poem “Trust”. I will keep looking.

My brain is bouncing around today. 

Trust. Trust the bouncing. Don’t get freaked out by Andrea saying “Well, that’s full spectrum,” when I told her I had started my writing practice (as planned) and then got caught up in obsessing about Louisa May Alcott and all things “Little Women”.

I did sound rather pressured speech-like and was tired of the concoctions and weaving I do and I wonder if I can trust learning crochet to calm me. I don’t know.

I doubt it.

But it will be something I can learn.

I also want large knitting needles and thick yarn so I might knit some scarves and remember that. Talking about knitting to someone the other day made me think “I don’t want knitting to be lost to me and my daughters” so maybe I will add that to things I can trust myself to fail at.

One moment I am writing about trust and my lack of it and the next thing I know I am reaching for eucalyptus oil, trusting it will cure my ailing stuffy nose.

I was going to write: one thing I can trust is the sun will rise every day though sometimes the depth of the clouds keep her light from shining in as it ought to, I suppose. 

I stop for a moment and think about (or rather it skitters through my brain) I remember when I lost all semblance of trust it was through an April Fools joke when my mother and sister for whatever reason short sheeted my bed.

I remember climbing into bed and Mom and Sue watching and the panic of not being able to push my feet comfortably into the bed. I was confused and didn’t speak my fear aloud. I probably said nothing though the memory isn’t entirely clear. I remember Sue and Mom laughing and I think I fake laughed with them.

I should make this into a short story so that I might clear it.

I can’t remember all the circumstances, but I do remember not understanding and feeling, literally, like the earth shook when a totally normal thing to trust – not a person, not the environment, not a government, suddenly morphed into a mystery that would not let me in. 

I no longer belonged in my own bed.

I no longer could trust my mother, or my sister would be a safe place.

Mom was actively giggling at my discomfort, along with my sister – the only other girl-person in a house with five boy-men people. 

I thought this room – our room – was a safety zone of sorts.

I was wrong.

Meet Julie Jordan Scott, the Creative Life Midwife:

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✍🏻I am a writer first, writing & creativity coach, multi passionate creative next. Writing has always been my anchor art and to her I always return. Thankfully, with great love.

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