When I was in my twenties, I was a creative soul. I painted. Huge canvases covering entire walls of my apartment were streaked with rich oils. I wrote religiously, filling journals and sitting in front of my vintage typewriter, tongue between my teeth and a pencil behind my ear, typing furiously to convey all sorts of messages about family conflict, being a woman, and rising above. I made music, playing drums in a band and touring the country. I read everything I could get my hands on–Dostoyevsky, Simone de Beauvoir, “The Yellow Wallpaper”, Tropic of Cancer. You get the picture.
Then I went back to school and got my teaching degree.
Then I got married.
Then I had three perfect babies, spaced two years apart.
At age 38, I love my life, my job, my marriage and of course my children. My babies are pieces of me walking around outside my body. When I am working, I ache for them if I think of them for too long a period of time. My job is fun, teaching teenagers great literature and social lessons I never knew would be my responsibility. This is the type of job where every day is something different, yet every year is eerily similar. My students keep me young and my own children allow me to see life through the eyes of a youngster. My financial-guy husband supports me through thick and thin, and we’ve had experience with both in our ten years of marriage.
Yet, during all of this, I assumed my creativity went dormant.
As I’ve matured though, I’ve begun to see that it is just my creative outlets that are changing. I’ve learned how to be one damn good cook and can bake most anything from scratch without getting flour all over myself and the kitchen counter. I was crafty with homemade gifts long before Pinterest became every housewife’s go to site for inspiration. Writing has become more sporadic for me, but graduate classes in poetry and my school’s fabulous annual Writers Week (professional/student/staff writers every period of the day for a full week) in February keeps my desire to write at a slow simmer throughout the year, where it usually flares up in spring along with the first crocuses. On top of all this, I busted out my sewing machine this summer and whipped up some curtains and pillows. Yes, my nickname in the English office is Martha.
So, why am I writing a blog? Despite the title of this post, I think that I may be able to scratch that itch I’ve had for a while through this public forum. I am hoping to be able to see the creativity I currently have on the same scale as my memories of the artist I once was in my twenties. I love being productive as well, and putting my work out there in the world just seems the best way to do this. Plus, I have some pretty friggen amazing recipes and ideas that others, especially busy, working moms, may benefit from. Consider it a win-win for everyone involved!