Lumpy, drippy, essential

modeling our creative birthright for kids

This fall, I had the incredible experience of attending the Creative Body Process workshop in Devon, England. It was an intense, vivid experience, the kind of thing that creates a before and an after in a life. There were cold plunges in the River Dart and owls, breakfasts in a medieval great hall, and a dog straight from a medieval tapestry. There were lots of tears and deep talks. There was a poetry workshop with the incomparable Ella Frears. There was soup. Abbie and Sian, the instructors, did a fantastic job of seeing us and guiding us towards greater alignment with ourselves and therefore our creativity (or was it the other way around?). They also showed up in their own practice and power as artists.

Dartington Hall, my dorm on the right

I came back from the workshop with a whole pile of poetry projects I’ve been playing with, mostly with my teen students. I came back tapped into my own poetry writing in a way I haven’t been in years (novel’s simmering). And I came back deeper into my creative life and my artist self. Also, very very tired!

I was out of the classroom for a week and a half to go to the workshop. Missing teaching days isn’t something I do often unless I’m sick, but I feel very good about it. Not only because the experience was such a precious one, or because I can see it enriching my teaching, but because I believe it is important to model being an artist. Put more broadly, it’s important that kids see the adults in their lives pursuing their joy, and taking their creative selves seriously.

I had a number of conversations with the other mothers on the course, as we ate fruit compote and yogurt under 500 year old rafters, about how glad we were to be modeling this for our kids by being there. Not that it was without complexity, as being a mom away from small kids is rarely simple or easy, especially if you’re the one whose kids get hand, foot, and mouth and whose partner is losing it at home. But still, we wanted to be parents whose children saw us honoring our own artist selves.

My daughter is so proud that I’m a writer. She doesn’t like being left when I go out to literary things, but she always wants to style me, and her style choices are always me being maximum awesome (my leather jacket and big earrings are frequent choices). She was very sad I couldn’t bring her on this course, but was also fine with her dad. It was harder on her a few years ago, when I was gone at a workshop and her dad got sick so she ended up bouncing back and forth between relatives more than intended. But that doesn’t outweigh how proud she is of me. She just wants to be included.

More and more, I can include her. We’ve been working on and off for a couple of years on a middle grade series about a fabulous six-year-old named Gritty McGraw. It’s very fun to brainstorm together, and the stories have much more pizazz than anything I’d thought up on my own. A couple of weeks ago, she and I spent an hour curled up together writing. She’s about to be part of her first poetry slam at school, and is revising a story she wrote. I see her pride in her writer self blooming, along her budding scientist, math whiz, rock star, and mermaid, and it’s really beautiful.

I can include her because I’m in the practice myself. While my art sometimes asks me to step away for a few days, and parenting does a number on my contemplative time, I don’t see creativity in any way as being at odds with parenting. They feel connected. And I want to parent/teach in touch with my creativity.

Some thoughts on how I model honoring my human creative birthright:

I do things I enjoy (not just things that are entertaining). I smell roses and enjoy fall leaves. Vocally. I go rollerskating. I put on music and get out the water colors. I play slow chord changes on my guitar. I eat ice cream. I putz in the garden. I day dream. I also, you know, do the laundry and stuff: these are often small moments I’m talking about.

I take time for my practice. This means making boundaries like, “It’s after bedtime and I am writing, so I can’t talk to you right now,” or “I’ll look for the field guide to rocks for you when I’m done with my writing time” or “Here’s an audiobook. I’ll be upstairs if you have any emergencies” or “Sure you can come write with me, but only if you’re quiet so I can write too.”

I don’t beat myself up about the results of artistic exploration. I model making things for the process, and not being too worried if the results are lumpy and drippy. I extend that openness to what she makes as well.

I am in creative community. I get babysitters so I can go to friends’ shows, and cool strangers’ artsy things. I also haul my kid out to things a lot. If there’s a way she can be included, I include her.

I read and listen to music and otherwise model how essential I find art.

I play. And I don’t mean getting down on the floor and pushing toy cars around in mind-numbing maternal duty. I play in ways that are genuinely play for me. I climb trees with my kid. I turn on good music. I get dressed up pretty. I run around in the park catching leaves with her. I cook (sometimes) with a sense of joy and creativity. I tell bad jokes. I make my kid laugh.

I make beauty. Which isn’t to say our house isn’t also often full of chaos and piles. But I make choices in my space that I find aesthetically pleasing. I don’t let anyone pile junk on the little counter with the cut flowers. I let my kid light a candle at dinner.

I respect dreams. Or maybe am kind of obsessed with talking about them. Anyways, this upwelling of unconscious meaning gets its due, and so makes space for honoring other forms of nonrational knowing/being.

I share. Whether it’s writing alongside my class and sharing some of what I wrote, or telling them about my novel, I show up as a teacher (and a parent) in my creative self. Yes, kids still are shocked to see me at the grocery store (don’t teachers just go back in the box when class is over?), so they may not really see me as a real person, but not for my lack of showing.

Those are my ways: what are yours?

I think it could be easy to dismiss your own creative expression if you don’t identify as an artist, or have a serious practice. That’s kind of like dismissing your capacity for centeredness and inner depth because you don’t meditate. Everyone is creative. I think it is important to let the kids in our lives see that in us. It goes a long way towards encouraging them to be their full creative selves as well.