Category: creativity

Re: Sunday

Of all the days of the week, I have the most mixed feelings when it comes to Sunday; the first day of a calendar row. In the early days of our relationship my bride and I would discuss why this day began the week rather than ended it. Hence the cause for confusion because Sunday is part of the week-end. Biblically, Sunday is the day when god rested because he had been busy creating everything on the six days previous.

Speaking of tradition; the reason behind the old names of days are so old. Maybe they just deserve to be forgotten. Just who cares anymore eh? Monday is everyone’s moody day but we don’t call it that. Well moon’s day sounds kind of sweet actually. Tuesday? Relates to war, so I’ll pass. Wednesday? Just who is this Woden dude anyway & why does he deserve a day? Thursday? hmm? If I had a hammer. Not bad, kinda folky. Friday? Frig? I’m getting frustrated enough to swear. Saturday? Woden (again with the norse god)? Washing day! Really? Sunday? Here’s comes the sun, finally a reference to The Beatles!

If we can’t rename the days then how about putting them on a spectrum. How about a colour to represent each day? Monday is moody blue for sure. Tuesday maybe purple, Wednesday is taupe, definitely a soul sucking military brown. Thursday is freshened with mint green. Friday might work as tangerine. Saturday is anything neon. So that leaves Sunday maybe a greyish yellow. We could name the days based on a flavour or the taste it leaves in our mouths. Monday leaves a bitter taste but it’s a necessary day so maybe spinach works. Tuesday has more promise but it’s still boring so maybe a liver paté. I’d say Wednesday is perfect for Spam or lima beans. Thursday is a pastry day. Friday tastes like toffee. Saturday is salty or spicy and Sunday reminds me of soup.

I suspect most people think Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday are pretty ordinary days. The thought of a weekend ahead gets us looking forward with anticipation so when Thursday comes around we are feeling the downward slope on the hill of labour. When I was working, I liked thinking of Thursday with excitement. I found time to fantasize and distort the realm of time so I broke the four following days down into seasons. Follow my reasoning here: Friday equals Spring, full of promise & anticipation, Saturday encapsulates Summer filled with stuff to do, Sunday has elements of Autumn melancholy yet still colourful and then Monday hits like Winter chills. Neither the mamas nor the papas like Mondays.

My favourite day, in conclusion, is the sunny sounding one. I like the name Sun Day as it evokes warmth and smiley faces. I’ve started posting my essays in honour of this day to make it part of yours. I would advocate for a revolution to labelling our calendars. Gone are my busy Sundays. My newspaper brings me a crossword which passes the time. Sometimes there is a biblical clue or two. It pleases me that I can answer them.

Re: Create

Yes, I believe we are created in god’s image. Yet, I do not believe in God. I prefer to attend closely to another soul for proof of the act of creation. How that soul came into being I cannot fathom. How I came to be on this earth, I cannot comprehend. Yet I know for certain that we are all miracles of creation. That is a fact found in our DNA; each strand of which carries the markers of our uniqueness.

We as humans are constructed out of Big Bang stuff. As recipients of this creative matter and energy we are destined to travel a creative path. The best teachers do not indoctrinate or inculcate. As a teacher I thought of all of my students as singers, dancers and artists waiting to find the right tools and skills to enable their creative force within to show itself. Budding scientists, athletes, orators, change agents and titans of business sat in the desks of my classrooms. Each child will tell you their dreams of destiny. Each child will be confident in their ability to make something. Each child will be convinced they are a marvel, unless they are told they are not.

Children must never be deflected from their creative urges. I could be a strict parent in my time but I would not stand in my sons’ way when it came to them testing their creative aspirations (even if their music was definitely too loud). One of my favourite creators, the songwriter Harry Chapin, sang a poignant song (Flowers are Red) about a stifled creative urge. Here he is with entertainer John Davidson showcasing how ideas can spring up from daily experiences. Then this gem of a moment in music happened. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qrbNygL0YU

The film, ‘The Fabelmans’ fictionalizes Steven Spielberg’s youth. This famous director was lucky, in a way, to have had the right magical dose of encouragement from various sources, not to mention an ingrained natural talent. The patriarch of the family perpetually thought of his son’s movie fascination as a hobby, while his mom revelled in his exploration of self. As I watched I wondered about my own parents, trying to guess who encouraged me to colour outside of the lines.

At the dawn of creation a spark was placed in all of us. Lucky are those who are born into the perfect environment to thrive. Most of us struggle for simple recognition of our innate creativity. Without a rudimentary acknowledgement of our gifts we begin to think less of ourselves, creatively or otherwise. Obviously, we are not all going to be famous artists. Gaining fame is not the point of creative pursuits, be they hobbies, pastimes or even professions. My father’s greatest talent was creating an atmosphere for making others feel appreciated: He made them feel gifted.

If God exists, I’m convinced he/she/they didn’t make junk. We have the genetics capable of creations of our own design. It’s paramount that we encourage ourselves and others to live up to that example.

Re: Animate

“It’s Alive!” Is the exuberant cry that Dr. Frankenstein shrieks when he has re-animated his stitched together fictional monster. He is excited! From what was once dead, springs fresh life. I am waiting for that enthusiastic response after what has been a deadening historical interval. I am man, hear me moan.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy encouraging myself and others to be Yippy-Skippy. When I see someone exuberant I want them to bring on that happy face & spread sunshine all over the place. It’s awesome how we can take a troubling situation and turn it upside down with a smile. My son recently told us a classic Canadian winter story of driving on treacherous roads of snow and sleet. Then he told us how he almost chocked to death after a first bite of a meal. He had us sitting on the edge of our seats because he animated his tale with captivating facial expression and body language. It reminded me of tribal times after a mastodon hunt, but not really because I’m not that old.

I’d love to be a comic strip artist or better yet an editorial cartoonist. These folks use drawings to animate our existence, dull that it is. I have been especially focussed on political cartoonists since they do such a good job of making me laugh/cry at our current leaders. Their point of view effectively lampoons the irony of our existence. I’m particularly keen on the art of Michel deAdder, a brilliant pictorial satirist, once fired from a Canadian newspaper and then picked up by the high profile Washington Post (take that Brunswick News!)

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-monday-edition-1.5196196/michael-de-adder-opens-up-about-being-dumped-by-n-b-newspapers-after-viral-trump-cartoon-1.5196199

Animation as an art form fascinates me. My dad once tried to use 16mm home movie film to turn my sister’s birthday party into a cartoon. I helped him make stick models that danced while cardboard letters magically arranged themselves into words. I can never be too old for cartoons (such a Saturday morning with cereal by the television unimportant sounding plural noun). Pinocchio, a film by Guillermo del Toro, recently won an Academy Award for stop-motion artistry. Claymation is fun and then came the Wallace&Gromit features. There are many Pixar and Disney films that make me marvel. Walt’s classics are works of art painted in a single cel that connects to a loop of film creating the illusion of movement. Add sound and you have a masterpiece. My granddaughter sings ‘Let it Go’ whenever she is awake. I’ve been singing the ‘Little April Shower’ song from Bambi for more than sixty years.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xksfShPraTQ

To be animated is to be optimistic: I welcome the fascinating, the wondrous, the rebirth. As I spring forward with the time change leaving winter’s death behind, the lengthening hours of sunlight will animate my mood, inviting me to look for reasons to dance and sing.

Re: Grace

If I had the chance to father a daughter, I would ask that she be called Grace. The name has a quality of mercy about it, so surely the owner of such a name would grow to value kindness, compassion and charity towards her fellow humans. I’ve only known one person named Grace and she was rather aloof, so maybe names can’t set the tone for character, but I still like the idea.

I’ve known several people to whom the value of grace was their guiding principle. One fellow from my church years, who looked perpetually 90 years old, shared a pew with me during choir practise. He carried himself with assurance, not arrogance. He would always put others before himself. He helped create quality time amongst our fellowship, never once demanding it. He wore simple clothes that suggested he wished to blend into a crowd, yet we always knew he was in the room due to his warm laughter. His favourite hymn was ‘Amazing Grace’ which seemed appropriate. Check out this lovely version by Cellist Patrick Dexter.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iyk2XrKIMcA

Shakespeare’s play, ‘The Merchant of Venice’ is one of my favourites from The Bard’s collection. While not without controversy, the characters do a wonderful job personifying several human values. After reading the play and performing a few lines in a classroom setting, my English teacher took our class to Stratford, Ontario to watch and learn. I remember being breathless throughout most of the scenes. We all felt somehow smarter after the performance, even a bit older. On the return trip, a small knot of us nerds gathered at the back of the bus to debate. We concluded that the opposite of Greed was not Charity, but Grace. (That’s why being greedy is so disgraceful) We didn’t do a High Five back then, but we knew we were cool.

Currently, in our bathroom there is a strip of wise sayings meant to start our day off on the right foot. One square offers a challenge: “Instead of Perfection, Seek Grace.” Sometimes it is easier to offer grace to another when we see they are in need of forgiveness or human comfort. To recognize in ourselves those same needs seems selfish. To attend to our own hurt, feels self serving. Etymologically, Grace comes from the latin word Gratis which suggests a gift freely given. Here is where we can begin: By recognizing that we are all members of a community, deserving of grace that is unreservedly given to all who assemble here.

A family tradition my wife and I followed when my three sons were growing up was saying grace at dinner. It wasn’t really a religious observance so much as an expression of gratitude. We would each offer a story of our day, highlighting who or what we were thankful for. Conversation often flowed gracefully to individual experiences. Our eldest described his frustration over a Lego model that didn’t turn out properly.“It looked different from the instruction picture,” he shrugged. “Just like people!” Amen.

Re: Grey

Some words like Grey get as much attention as a senior citizen waiting in line at a bank. The word Grey/Gray even comes with two spellings, which my computer doesn’t appreciate. I think that gray has more complexity than the colour tone it describes. I’m grey; of hair, of perspective and sometimes of mood. Let me explain.

My hair has grayed slowly. My mom predicted that I would be bald by age thirty, but my hair persisted. I went through a salt and pepper phase but now, at age seventy, there are very few dark strands left on my head. So I am officially a ‘Grey Hair’; a term I used to use with some disrespect when referring to members of committees who’s opinions I didn’t share. Now, I like the way my grey hair lends me the illusion of wisdom, like Gandalf the Grey. I won’t use a hair dye. I used to feel sad when I saw female church elders who had tinted their soft grey locks with a blueing agent. (I quietly nicknamed them Blue Belles to cheer myself up).

Life is filled with shades of grey. Many folk feel that the world is either black or white. Some actually prefer seeing things as either/or. I suppose it makes it easier to decide yes or no. But events or ideas are rarely as singular as that. Taking a hard line on a topic means that the soft fringy edges will get ignored. Darkness and light have spectrums of illumination, tone, and pastel perspective. To me, grey does not suggest mediocrity of opinion or design. I’m quite content to see issues as shades of grey.  When I evaluate things I can sometimes rank them according to priorities, like selecting shades of colour when I am repainting my living spaces. I once painted all the walls in my home a light grey and was amazed how they took on a different colour as dawn moved into dusk. It reminded me of how my dad taught me to watch patiently for a rainbow to emerge through the greyness of a rainy day.

I admit that overcast days can make me moody, yet I tend to do my best writing on a grey cloudy day. In bright sunlight I have an urge to do silly things in a forest or on a beach, but on a hazy, darkened day I can somehow make better decisions. Where I live now, the skies are often tissue white, which is a remarkably happy, less stressful, contrast to the intensity of a cloudless stark blue sky. I remember being surprised when my wife and I previewed our wedding pictures; I hadn’t noticed that the skies were a light ash shade. When the sun set on our lengthy joyous pictorial, the sky behind and above us had exploded with a stunning pumpkin red wash that looked digitally manufactured.

The neutrality of grey can suggest a potential for inclusion. All colours are then complementary rather than competitive. Perhaps we can get to yes more effectively by starting with grey.

Re: Myth

Sometimes when I’m starting a blog idea I can’t decide which word I’ll use as a guide. This one started as Re: Wheel then it morphed to Re: Significance before finally settling on Re: Myth. Read with me while I try to spin these all together.

The Greeks, Romans, Norse had gods, goddesses and fringe idols. All aboriginal cultures have creation stories to aid in understanding how we got here on this solitary planet. We need to feel that gods/goddesses/saints and other mythical creatures in whatever pantheon have our backs in times of trouble. Ancient peoples used the language of their time to elicit a response from their mythological buddy and voila, prayers/wishes were answered. Advice was sometimes given by earthy middlemen. Modern books have suggested we have these archetypes within us, empowering us to define ourselves as creators of our own destiny. I like the notion that I can be sailing my own ship, using the wheel to steer clear of hazards, avoiding the trap that I am open to the whims of the gods. I don’t want to feel as though someone is spinning the wheel of fortune for me, especially if I come up short. Yet myths are sometimes like maps giving us direction signs, even on the straight or narrow highways.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kK62tfoCmuQ

Millions of television viewers wrapped themselves up in the mythology of The Game of Thrones, beautifully produced by D.B. Weiss and David Benioff. Inspired by fantasy writer George R.R. Martin and elements of British history, this enthralling series reinvented mythic characters. To paraphrase Daenerys, sometimes  the wheel of tradition has to be broken. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-rxmk6zPxA

Some generations grew up with Aesop fables or Grimm’s fairy tales, now with the  sagas of Harry Potter, Star Wars, Star Trek and Game of Thrones we have recycled legends of old and new. These imaginative mythological characters may very well be the stories we tell to bring significance to a future beyond anything we can currently believe possible. Watch how these young minds revel in the telling of legendary Luke Skywalker meeting his father.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NCBA1wii70o

Current ticket sales for Marvel or DC ‘comic book’ films are likely inversely proportional to the number of bodies sitting in church pews every Sunday. Intellectually I’m convinced that all religions are myths. Every individual and every society tells tales in order to make sense of the unknowns in life. We seek order to overcome our feelings of randomness. We want the intangible to feel tangible. Our religions help us to feel significant amidst the spinning wheels of space and time. And significance is what we are after. As the wheel of our life spins its way to the inevitable end. I am a central figure in my own play. I may not be the hero, and yet, I want to be able to conclude that my life story had substance, was not a myth of my own creation.

Re: Snow

Most Canadians have a love/hate relationship with snow. Every car has a snow shovel, a snow scraper and some vehicles even have snow chains waiting in the trunk. I used to have a set of snow tires on rims which I put on the car every October in preparation for the first heavy snowfall. We all have our horror stories of finding our way through snow. We spin tales of our first childhood experience with snow, wishes for snow days or being snowed in so we don’t have to go to work or school. Freshly fallen snow can be a source of wonder and delight, especially if the snowfall is on Christmas Eve. Who can forget the joy in that excited shout, “It’s snowing!”

One December I headed out with my young family to spend Christmas holidays with relatives in Thunder Bay. It’s a long trip from home and the light dims early at that time of year. Half way through the journey the wind starting whipping the snowflakes into a frenzy called a white-out. Car headlights are useless as the beams reflect back at you. Dimensions are distorted; no up, down or sideways is discernible. On this drive I tried to lock my sight on to the vehicle in front, a transport truck with a small red rear light showing on its back left hand corner. Luckily an inner voice told me I was being stupid so we pulled into the next motel. Only one room was left and, I kid you not, sifted snow had piled its way into the closet.

I’ve never enjoyed driving a car on snowy roads. I survived 30 winters in Timmins Ontario, where snow can be expected from September to June. I dare not estimate the number of driveways I have shovelled during those years. Some snowdrifts completely covered my car. I built a carport and a garage in an effort to minimize the coverage yet I still had to clear a way to the road, which was often not plowed until midday, creating a crusty mound of snow at the end of the entryway.

Rolling up sticky snow to create snowmen never loses its allure. Everyone has memories of building snow forts, throwing snowballs, or sledding down hillsides. I satisfied my wish to leave the dark side of winter wonderlands behind by retiring in Victoria, British Columbia. The family gathered at the homestead on the final Christmas In Timmins and the young ones honoured us by sculpting two snow replicas of my wife and me in tropical accessories.

There are many words used to describe types of snow; sludge, scrump, slurry, floaters, are some I’ve heard. Many words come attached to curses. Being a poet, my favourite is ‘snowy-dews’; those jumbo sized flakes that meander from whisper-still skies to melt on contact with parka-clad humans. A panoramic view of these fragile crystal structures makes me want to softly sing with a vibrato Bing Crosby-esque voice.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orJ9-bdNi_s

Re: Birth

Spring is a time for rebirth. It’s the season for positive change. A birth heralds new possibilities. A new generation can now lead us to a better way, a better life, a better world. After our mothers bore us, we must now bear the responsibility of making our lives count for something. That is the challenge inherent in our birth. Maybe that is part of the meaning of birthright: each of us has a chance, a right and a responsibility to use our lives well and to leave a worthy legacy. When I experienced the births of my own three boys, I remember being awed by the process itself. Now as I watch my grandchildren, I am enjoying their eager minds birthing new ideas, new games to play, new imaginings that sparkle out when they awake to greet a fresh day. I love being surprised by their behaviours.

Recently my wife told me a story of how her mother responded to her gift of Easter treats. Chocolate eggs had been placed for easy finding to accommodate tired elderly eyes. On this particular spring morning, my mother-in-law got up early with laser vision gathering up a feast of sweets, filling her pockets and quickly going back to bed. When she arose for a second time that same morning, she seemed petulant that she hadn’t got as many treats as her husband. The trail of foil wrapping, brown chocolatey smudges on her bedsheets and breast pocket attested to her haul, yet still she doubted the accounting. Endearingly, Mom asked her daughter to help tie the Lindt bunny’s bell ribbon necklace around her frail wrist. At 92 she allowed her 2 year old soul to shine through.

Our personal birthday, the anniversary of our beginning, can be a time to reflect on how far we’ve come and where we want to go. I am getting old enough to not think back to count my age, but rather to see how many more years until 100. I’m closer to that date than I am to the year of my birth. Age doesn’t scare me too much at this point. Luckily I have been able to witness the experience of others born before me. My elders have taught me much about patience and other important values. What I am most charmed by is the way the seniors in my life have returned to their childlike selves in response to events in their lives. 

My fondest and most frustrating memories of my sister often revolved around her gathering the treats of life too fast for me to catch up, leaving me wondering if I had got my share. I need not have fretted. Judging by my mother-in-law’s Easter egg experience, I’ll have a chance to be a kid again. Life viewed this way surely eliminates the fear of death. Maybe this is a signal that life is a never ending circle. Death, as we call it, is just another sort of birth. With patience, we’ll soon discover what’s next and find happiness there.

Re: Performance

I miss performances. The COVID19 pandemic has created an environment where culture has been a victim. China’s lunar new year holiday celebrations were affected. Italy and Spain curtailed their street cafe traditions. European countries lost their football community. I have a friend who lives for sports and he mourns the absence of watching a high performance team. He and I were both shocked when the summer Olympics in Japan had to be cancelled. What a blow to all the athletes who were robbed of the chance to perform, after years of practise, for a coveted medal of Gold, Silver or Bronze.

A large part of my enjoyment in life comes from attending a play, a dance or musical performance. I’m always awed at the work it takes to bring a piece of art to the stage. It’s thrilling to witness a one of a kind performance. I take great delight in watching young artists get their first taste at a role. When I was in elementary school I took part in public speaking competitions and my sister excelled at baton twirling. Together we once auditioned for a youth talent competition at our local television station. Our parents would admit, after we came off the stage, that they experienced sheer terror over a potentially bad outcome. We were just delighted it was over so we could go to the promised dinner and movie.

We have a performing arts college in our community and many theatre companies ask the students to perform with more veteran actors as part of their course work. These shows validate the effort it takes to make a performance count for something special. I wonder how these student actors will realize their dream of performing in front of a large audience, when large crowds are scary places to be, even while a death dealing virus is on the loose. 

The most uncomfortable times in my teaching career were when I had to undergo a mandatory performance review. Working with senior teachers during the practice teaching sessions at Teacher’s College was tense enough, but being under the watchful gaze of a principal for a week created performance anxiety. Even when I felt I performed well it was hard to deflect the feeling of judgement. Performing artists must have very thick skins.

Television can fill the need to watch performers showing their skills. There is a plethora of talent shows on all major networks right now. The monotonous commercials get in the way of me engaging with the backstory behind each performer. Sometimes I tire of the need producers feel is necessary for me to know the details of each of the artist’s lives. Like a magic trick, sometimes I just want to be amazed by the performance, without knowing the details of how, why or what came before it. 

I was recently moved to tears by this work from the genius of Lars Von Trier. The power of performance is breathtaking, the magic of creativity is spellbinding, the result is inspiring.

Re: Inspire

We have the Creator in all of us. My interpretation of those pointy church spires has a creative inspiration. Perhaps they were designed to be the highest point in a village so that the citizens would forever be reminded of their own creation and by extension their inherent creativity. Think of these spires as antennae, reaching out and drawing in all manner of information. If inspiration comes from some mystical place, who is to say that those who are inspired are not just tuned into the correct frequency to receive the message. Imagine a writer working on a play, walking through cobble streets when suddenly catching sight of a pigeon lifting into the air. As the bird is followed, our artist spies the steeple and inhales as if struck by an inspired idea. Perhaps a church spire, with God’s help or not, can be a conductor of what is sometimes called the collective consciousness. Ideas are out there, nothing is really new, thoughts hang in the air like fruit waiting to be picked.

While some inspirations may come from tall manmade structures, artists and scientists are forever having inspiring thoughts in all sorts of locations. One wonders where that inspirational signal comes from to create that seed of an idea. We’ve all experienced, to a greater or lesser degree, that magic moment when you feel as though all your previous ideas and thoughts congeal into a coherent whole. It’s the ‘Aha!’ Or ‘Eureka’ moment that drives the engine of change. It can be an expression of joy for a new way of doing things.

First we are curious: “How is this done?” We look through the cutouts at a construction site and stand transfixed at what is being created. We marvel at the birth of an animal in a farm setting. Lots of experiences inspire us to reach for our own goals. Once creativity starts, it rarely stops. The members of the band RUSH, like other artists, seem to be constantly inspired to do art in different ways. Here they are being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Watch for the inspired way that member Alex Lifeson (who is the last to speak) accepts his award. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7M7AEi68a20

We can watch moments such as this and be inspired. At other times we may stare blankly out the window or at a proverbial blank canvas and wonder how to find a way to express what we are feeling or thinking. I’ve been stuck like this many times in my life. Sometimes the best thing is just to wallow and wait. Find a place of safety until something colourful flits across your field of vision. Rekindle the ember that was, and still is, the child within. A child is rarely without inspiration. Is that called innocence?

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the Roman God Cupid is a wee babe with a skill to inspire love in those it pricks with its arrows. Once inspired, all negative thoughts subside, our eyes are opened to a fresh day, and a new way.