True, I have, once again, wandered off for a bit. Truth be told, my usual October swoon extended well into November–far longer than usual–and there is still a rank residue of it clinging to me today. Though December has started and, usually, that shift to the “12” on the calendar nudges me toward the light, it may be a slower-than-usual process.
However, in the meantime, I have done a a little more in regard to wandering and gathering. I continue to select random art books from the shelves of my public library (usually drawing books) and use them each morning before I eat breakfast. This mental workout and stimulation for creativity helps me even on days when I do not want to go to work. Face it, that has been almost every day of late.
Two years ago, while recovering from yet another body and injury setback, I mustered the honesty to see a therapist. By the end of the second month, maybe due to the opportunity to process aloud, I began the habits I mostly adhere to now: art in the morning and writing at night before bed. Though I have fallen away from the latter since my return from Camp two months ago, I have rarely missed a day of art. That therapist lauded these “creative outlets,” as he, too, was a runner, and knew the feeling of not being allowed to run.
While I can allow my brain to wander, in true Logician manner, I also need more physical wandering from time to time.
Today, in a class I teach that features a great deal of wandering and exploring, we visited several different neighborhoods in our city. The first one had a park to which I had never been, and it was one that was as close to the house-ringed squares in Savannah, GA. Those baffled me, as they felt like exclusive enclaves of the elite who could afford them. This park felt different.
I know, as I was only there a short time, that my initial perception is probably off. The first vision is always gilded in fantasy anyway. But, wandering this park, standing below massive, ancient trees that must form light-blocking canopies in full-leaf, though they are naked fingertips now, I finally felt like I was looking at things like an artist.
In my creative wanderings, I have read about the habits of an artist and many full-time artists talk about how their artwork changes the way they look at things. Today, I felt that way, noticing the withered trees, the re-created and preserved architecture, and the interplay of light and dark on an otherwise drab day.