Lately my mind has been a big fat dud. A blank canvas, if you will. Have fruitlessly been trying to write for the last few weeks but have been syntax-challenged.
But just because I've been devoid of any creative storytelling, doesn't mean I haven't been busy. I returned from a holiday for the record books in Australia and Hong Kong, which was more amazing than I could ever express, the next week was followed by readjusting to the time–no easy feat–and staying awake past eleven am, cursing the cold (I had just been in 85 degree surf, after all), and putting some serious mental energy into redecorating my apartment.
As New York apartments go (read: tiny, cramped, no closet space), mine is just the opposite. I am fortunate in that I have a one bedroom that is probably two to three times the size of your average one bed in the city. How? I just got lucky. Right place, right time, I suppose. But New York being as transient as it is, I never put much effort into my place as I wasn't sure if I would move into a different space one day or head for the burbs to the west or north of the Hudson.
Until one day I was hosting a friend for dinner and was discussing my ambivalence about sprucing it up a bit and she simply said, "but it's your shit!" And just like that, inspiration was born. She was right. It was my shit and an upgrade was overdue. (My place had always been fine, but it needed a little umph.) So upon returning from holiday I started scouring various websites looking for ideas. Said inspiration was quickly found at West Elm, Pottery Barn and CB2, and I hit the streets to go look and feel in person. I made my purchases and awaited delivery, which came last week. It took about a week to pull it all together and I took great pleasure in purging some of my old stuff. Donated went old furniture, shoes, clothes and bags. I did a complete cleanse of my place and it felt 100% better and worth every bloody New York penny (read: not cheap) when I was done. As if I'd just completed a novel, I felt lighter and freer when I walked into my place and wondered what the hell took me so long to do this. I mean really? It's not like I couldn't make it happen before, but I guess sometimes sometimes someone or something crystallizes it for you ("But it's your shit!") and suddenly you're doing what you need to do.
Earlier tonight I was talking with the same friend and was telling her how I'd been trying to write as of late but have been blocked for some reason, and again she put it in perspective by saying, "you've put all your creative energy into your temple." Well hot diggity if she didn't just do it again. The creative energy I had been using in redecorating–researching, purging, assembling, hanging, decorating–had been dominating my brain and left room for little else. It was no wonder I couldn't write, at least in the traditional sense, for I had been rewriting my apartment for two weeks.
The point of this diatribe is that sometimes our creative juices flow from unexpected areas and leave us just as fulfilled as if we'd written a song, book, etc. We all have a creative outlet within us and if you're open to what others say to you sometimes ("But it's your shit!") then it will ebb and flow, surprising you in the process.
You're worth it, people, so get to sprucin'!