I started writing my book and it didn’t take long before I felt overwhelmed. I love being creative. In all my 38 years I’ve never had a creative outlet I really loved before now. I only had my job. I was a builder…. I built buildings. I was good at my job because I’m a good problem solver, because I’m creative, innovative and loyal. Now I manage restaurants with my mother, I make videos, I do photography, and I try to write. But it sometimes feels like I try to do too much.
My creativity is spread thin. I feel like I’m not focused on one thing therefor I’m not doing good at any one thing. I think I’m doing ok at all of them most of the time, but never great at one. But I love them all, so how do I pick.
My imagination takes me over. It feels like I’m standing on wet written pages in a dream looking down at my feet as the letters smush between my toes like alphabet soup. I lift my eyes to what’s in front of me and I see a mountain. There’s a backpack with an axe leaned against a tree not far from me. I can’t see the top. All I see are pine trees. It smells like Christmas. Before my eyes make it to the top, I see fog. I look to my left and I see the edge of a cliff covered in snow. There is what looks like a sled half covered with ice sitting by what looks like a tent leaned against a rock. They look as if they have been there a while. I can’t see the bottom. All I see are ridges, valleys and snow. The smell of cold and moisture is in the air. To my right, I see a beach. I see a small boat anchored, swaying with the waves as they seem to play the piano on the shore, the sun glistening off the ripples of moving water as my eyes try to see as far as they can see. I can’t see land. I can’t see the end. I smell heat and salt. Behind me looks like an open door of a cargo plane. I see white faint clouds ripping by the door with small glimpses of what looks like it could be land. Each glimpse changes, from white to blue to green. I smell rubber. Possibly from the plane, or the parachute bag hanging within reach, but my mind smells turbulence, the smell of nothing as the air gets ripped away from your face from falling. At the bends in my legs, I feel a chair, a wooden chair as if I should sit.
In my right hand I hold a camera. I can’t help but lift it up to hit record so I can capture all of these beautiful sights I am seeing. Surely the beauty I capture would give the audience all the senses I am feeling. But what am I recording? What will I do with what I have recorded? What will I say and what will it mean…..and why?
Maybe I could throw on the backpack, climb the mountain, and get a better view. I bet there will be beautiful photos up there. Who knows what adventure I could encounter. What a story that could be. But maybe I should sit on the sled, wrap my arms tight around the tent for cushion in case of impact and push off the edge of the snow-covered cliff. That would be awesome. I’ve seen amazing pictures of snow and mountains. I can only imagine what would lie ahead. I look back to my right and remember my love for water…. for the ocean. I could climb on the boat and set sail into the unknown. The thought of what I may find or what I may not find pushes me to want to take the adventure no matter what the cost. Like the stories I’ve heard growing up.
All of these options are fascinating to me. But they all feel like they require sacrifice and dedication in one direction.
But what if I turn around. What if I put on the parachute and jump! The fall alone is something only few humans experience in their lifetime. Maybe I would land on the top of a snow-covered mountain. Then I could have the best view for my photos. I could slide down till I hit the pine trees and make a fire with tree limbs and have my adventure. But I may need an axe! Then at the bottom of the mountain there could be the ocean where I would build a boat and set sail into the sunset. Why Choose one when I could possibly experience them all!
Instead, I sit in the chair. Not knowing which way to go. Not knowing why I don’t know which way to go. Only that I love the thought of what each direction could be. I pull out my laptop and I begin to build. I build the story. I hold the camera and I head up the mountain in my mind. Down the snow-covered cliff in my heart. And out on the never-ending ocean in my soul. I don’t build buildings anymore. I build stories. My tools are my photos, videos, and writings. I can’t choose between them. I have to learn to use them. I must learn to make the creative jump. Then build the story I encounter.
Back to reality! I talk about this a lot. I think it’s something people often experience until they find there way. Again, I don’t know exactly why, but I wanted to share this. How I’m feeling, what I’m going through. Maybe someone can relate. It’s tough trying to find something you feel is so important, yet you don’t know what you’re looking for! A path. A guiding light in one direction giving you a clear understanding of what you’re doing. So simply yet so hard. So small yet so big.
Maybe It’s not for me to choose.