Desert

This was an assignment from my journaling class, to finish the following sentence, "Right now my creativity is like....". The following questions were posted by my instructor to be explored. This is what I wrote in my journal and slightly revised for the blog.


RIGHT NOW MY CREATIVITY IS LIKE A DRIED UP DESERT….

:: How do I feel about this dried up desert?
:: Where is the nearest oasis & how do I get there?
:: What would it be like for me to transform my desert into a lush tropical hideaway?
:: What living things currently exist in my desert?
:: What do I like about my desert?

"Out of the Desert" by David Kreider

Right now my creativity is like a dried up desert. The cruel sun is beating down my back with its ruthless rays of judgment. I walk, thirsty, for miles and miles of wilderness and dry empty sand, until I hope to reach the oasis of inspiration.

I feel scared that this is the only world for me - this desert - where I will be stuck forever and ever. I will walk on and on for days without finding water.

But there it is - the oasis, it’s just beyond the horizon, always just beyond the horizon. So I never can get there because its always right out of my reach.

There is a certain advantage to being in a desert: the warmth, the sun, the sheer beauty of the endless sky and vast horizon, a lonely bird flying up in the sky, the unseen life, hidden underneath my feet. Tumbleweeds, dunes, beautiful colors of sunset. The heat is unbearable, but I can always cover myself with the protective clothing, and just keep riding the camel until I reach the Bedouin tents. There I can find a tough but hospitable people, who will offer me refuge along with their sweet dates and tea. And maybe a bed. They will teach me their ancient wisdom of being free in the desert. How to listen to the wind and read the weather on the slopes of the sand dunes, how to hear the whispered songs of the tumbleweeds brought from faraway lands. I can learn how to not conquer the desert, but befriend it, understand it, and become one with it.

My desert is the vast embodiment of freedom. Its scary because it offers many choices, like an empty canvas, it waits for the first brushstroke. It’s waiting for the rider to cross it, for the bird to fly above it up in the sky, for the lizard to run across it on its nimble legs. It has life hidden in it, but still active;

it’s lying dormant and waiting for the first touch. It’s like a final stage of fetus or a chrysalis, ready to be born. But to push it to be born would be a disaster. I just have to be patient, and wait for the right moment.

My creativity is not dead, it’s just waiting for the right time to emerge. There’s life teeming inside it, thoughts churning. To push them out would result in something worthless, like unbaked bread. I have to wait for the bread to be baked in order to enjoy it. My creativity is trying to sort things out, to sift out the useful from the useless. To figure out what I want. I can’t decide yet. It’s not right to push the result. So I must wait. And wait. Not passively, I can still absorb all the wonderful things inside of me, and new things around me. But when the right moment arrives, I will receive a sign that I must act. And then, I will.