Chaos and creativity

Dr. Andrew Weil says our brains are not made for the 21^st Century. In an essay in  Newsweek, “Don’t let chaos get you down,” he points to the lower rates of depression among the Amish and the Third World and concludes that “there seems to be something about modern life that creates fertile soil for depression.”

Aside from the fact that the Amish may be less likely than us English to admit they are depressed, and depression in poorer countries may likewise be underreported, we all know what he’s talking about.

It’s the knot in my shoulders after a whole day of emails and phone calls trying to coordinate a schedule for a Congolese pastor visiting next week. And trying to post things on the website for work but finding the site unavailable on my usual browser. And after that, vacuuming the rugs and furniture once again because my son-in-law reported fleabites on his ankles after visiting last weekend, though I thought I’d nipped the infestation in the bud (ten loads of laundry, vacuuming everything the week before; I’d missed a flea treatment for the cat). And skyping with my daughter and seeing little Hazel droopy and coughing, poor baby! And am I really going to spend that much on hearing aids? I hear my husband cringe over the phone, though he claims not, and we argue about that, if not the hearing aids. And oh. Have I written in my blog recently? Brother Dale, who skyped me accidently yesterday because he was trying to figure out his computer problems, wants to know.

Watching the woods turn from yellow to skeletal drab on a gray November day, I know better than to feel sorry for myself. The only thing to do is write it down and laugh about it. My life, compared to others’, is pretty tranquil.

But things get lost among the chaos, just like those fleas hiding somewhere and targeting my son-in-law’s ankles. I had a dream that may be relevant.

I was at a conference that included a writing retreat led by my favorite writing teacher. My attention was divided between the conference and the writing. I missed the first writing session and perhaps others. As I dipped in and out I noticed that other people in the writing retreat had beautiful, antique-looking notebooks. Where was mine? At the end of the retreat I discovered that I had one, too. I opened it from the back. There were personalized greetings to me on printed pages. There were writing exercises, including some loose, torn-up paper that seemed to be part of an exercise. The notebook was meant to stimulate creativity but I had missed the instructions on how to use it.

In our distraction we can miss our own creativity. 

Still, I wouldn’t give up any of it. Except the fleas.

 Hazel Violet discovers the recycle bin.