In the handful of homes I’ve owned, one “thing” was always lacking. I’ve long wanted a dedicated space of my own where I might immerse myself in creative pursuits. Decades passed before I was willing to admit that I did indeed have creative abilities.
Arts and crafts were never my thing growing up. I understand now it had a great deal to do with my being left-handed. Demonstrations had to be translated in my head from the right-handed world to my left-handed realm. Fine motor skills require my left hand. Gross motor skills may be done with either hand in my reality.
I abstained from creative pursuits until I was in my 20s. Late in that decade of my life, I learned how to do counted cross stitch and simple crochet. I crochet right handed but am apt to cross stitch with either hand so I have to remind myself to be consistent. I find it’s noticeable, in the appearance of the stitches, to my eye if I switch hands.
In the last few years I’ve become more interested in using photography as a means of expression. I’ve never had any training, I just know what I like. And, of course, I’d like to use the written word in conjunction with the photos. When I was teaching, I was always amazed at what the photography students learned and produced.
I could watch videos to learn but that’s not really an optimal method for me because I’m so distractible. I will figure it out when I make the time to do so. None of this addresses my need for a nook, though.
The idea of a she-shed has been floating through my mind for too long. It isn’t difficult to find places to write…coffee shops, camp porches, park benches, basically anywhere there’s a flat, sturdy surface. But then, it’s nice to have a place that speaks to you as you write. For several summers I rented a camp on a small lake. I loved sitting on the screen porch and writing.
It was easy to lose myself in that setting. The fragrances of nature, the birdsong, the lapping water. So easy to recall but recollections lack the tactile effects. While I can picture it and hear it, I’m unable to feel it. And it doesn’t speak to me unless I’m present. I prefer to be transported by my senses. And drift. “And so it was that later/When the miller told this tale…”. It’s so easy to drift given the correct impetus.
The process is complete. My thoughts have drifted elsewhere. I’m no longer nook-focused. I will continue to develop the concept in my head. “And although my eyes were open/They might just as well‘ve been closed..”. Drifting, envisioning what could be. I wonder if Gary Brooker ever tired of playing his wonderful song and singing those haunting lyrics. I never tire of listening to it.
“A Whiter Shade of Pale” is quoted in this post. Written by Keith Reid and Gary Brooker.
Stories Are For Eternity 