The Most Creative Person I've Known

The most creative person I’ve ever known.  Hmmmm.  Let me think.  At the risk of sounding egotistical, the most creative person I’ve ever known is me.  Let me be more precise, however, and the egotism may vanish into thin air.  The most creative person I’ve ever known was the me that used to exist.  I used to feel as though ideas and projects would flow from my mind.  In a way, I think I’ve now gotten to the point where I am too rigid, not spontaneous enough.  I need to find the creative person I once knew.  I need to find the child living inside of me.

The child lives under layers.  I have the layers of stress that come from striving to provide for a family and work for an organization.   I have layers of disillusionment that have come from seeing the way people treat others in the dog-eat-dog world of today.  I must break through layers of hard crusty shell in order to reach me; in order to find me. 

I was creative because I didn’t let others dictate how I should feel about certain events in my life.  I was creative because I would ignore life and let the inner child come to the surface.  I was able to dream big and truly believe my dreams had a great chance of being realized.

 I would play football in the backyard by myself.  I would envision the other players on the field.  I would, quite literally, become the quarterback and receiver on the same play.  It was always difficult.  I always needed a last second come from behind win.  Sometimes the clock would tick down to zero, I would be back to make a pass.  As the ball left my hand, I knew it was good.  Perfect spirals were my goal, and I rarely missed the mark.  The pass would sail through the air and into my own waiting hands only to drop to the backyard grass.  I would stand up defeated, until I noticed the yellow flag on the ground.  Defensive pass interference or roughing the passer would help me survive just one more play; the play that would define my career as the best player ever in the NFL.

While in the swimming pool, I would quickly become a whale at a Sea World show.  I could jump and dart just like a dolphin.  Heck, I was a dolphin.  Nothing could touch me.  I was incredible.

My imagination could go off at any moment creating stories of heroism and amazing feats.  I would laugh, cry, love, hate, and enjoy life with the passion that only a believer can muster.

What has happened to me?  Why am I no longer happy with life the way it is at this present moment?  Why am I afraid of looking foolish to others?  Why do I not let myself dream the unbelievable?  I  must change, and I must change now.  I must find my inner self once again.  Hurry, before that part of me dies.

The Most Creative Person On Earth

J.K. Rowling is the most creative person I can think of in the world right now.  Not that there aren’t others, but she takes the cake.  She was able to create a world of enchantment.  This world helps me to escape from my hum drum life and enter a space where magic is reality.  She created a believable world where characters come to life.  Good fights hard against evil.  There is a strange eeriness about the world she created.  It seems almost like I have been there at one time or another.  It is a place to which I love to escape.  I love to explore.  Her mind creates a world that is superior to the life I live, in many ways.  She seems to be able to escape the real world and live in a made up land of beauty and enchantment.

She wrote what she wanted to write, and because of this she went from living on welfare to being a millionaire in five years.  

My Ideal Writing Spot

The ideal writing spot, for me, would be on a beach, all alone.  I would love to sit in a beach chair and feel the bubbles from the ocean massage the crevasses between my toes.  I could listen to the majestic caw of the seagulls marking their domain, and the gentle surf lulling me into a dreamlike fantasy.  The fresh ocean smell would penetrate my every sense.  From here my mind could wander to an Irish countryside covered in wisps of emerald green grass.  I could visit the cavernous halls of ancient castles and dream of the parties and balls that took place so long ago.  I could, in my mind, plummet to the depths of the ocean before me.  I could imagine a gentle melody to the rhythm of the surf and picture a couple dancing along the beach, their firm bodies covered in sand.  I would see them fall to the ground in anticipation of what was to come.  In short, I could get lost; I could be free.

A Little Bit About Reaping What We Sow

I’m sitting here typing these words on a laptop computer.  I wonder how many others around the globe are doing the same thing.  I imagine the number to be in the millions.  In fact, I’m enjoying this writing session in the library and can hear the tick, tick, tick of other keyboards.  This is a detail we take for granted.  How did this come to be?  How am I able to do such a thing?  In short, the computer has changed the world.

Now we move onto the meat of my point.  When was the very first computer invented?  Before a little research, I may have guessed it was sometime in the 20’s or 30’s.  I would have been right, albeit one century off the mark.  The first mechanical computer was invented in 1822, by a man named Charles Babbage.  Until yesterday, I don’t believe I had even heard his name spoken.  Why?  He never completed his “Deference Engine”.  According to some things I’ve read, it was due to lack of focus and capital.  The government was funding the project, but lost confidence in Babbage’s work.  They didn’t see the value in his invention.  His deference engine wasn’t built until 1991!  It was built to specifications that would have been used in 1822.  It worked.  If funding would have continued for the project, he would have made the first fully functioning mechanical computer; complete with hard copy printouts by the way.

How often do events like this happen in our lives?  We may expend a great deal of energy, thought, time, and even money into our goals without one single result; at least of which we are aware.  We plant seeds we do not sow.  We do not reap the rewards of our labor.  Does this mean our labor is any less important or successful?  I’ll let you decide based on the words I’ve already written; the words I’m writing on this laptop computer.

The Prison

Some prisons have walls. 

I can remember visiting such a place one time.  I was serving a mission for my church in Argentina.  I neared the end of my two years of service, when a challenge presented itself.  There was the name of an individual, of a man, on the records of our church.  He had not attended for some time, so I visited his home.

The door scraped open, and the face of an elderly woman emerged.  I discovered this was his mom.  As tears bounced from her eyes, she told me her son was in prison.  Not a soul had visited him.  She urged, no, begged me to visit him.  Before his error of ways, he had been a missionary; a missionary like me.  His mistake was not a small one either.  He attempted to assassinate the president of Argentina.  If it wasn't for the jamming of a gun, the word "attempted" would have been removed from the equation.

I talked to other members of our church who insisted missionaries had attempted to visit him in the past, to no avail.  It was a worthless venture they advised.  This only spurred my 21-year-old mind along.  If they said it was difficult (maybe even impossible) to get permission to visit him, that was exactly what I was going to do.  It WAS difficult, even tedious, but I managed to gain the permission. 

The enormous steel door moaned on its hinges as I paced into the dark concrete box.  They explored my body for weapons with a quick spread-eagle pat down.  The massive machine guns they lugged made me a little nervous, but I proceeded through several guarded check points; marching through several more steel doors.

At last I found myself face-to-face with the man, the attempted assassin.  It wasn't long before my fear was swapped for the attitude of a student.  This man, although a criminal, taught me a lesson I will never forget.

"No one visits me," his eyes sagged.

"My friends have abandoned me.  You are the first one to visit me besides my mom.  I made a mistake, can't anyone see that?  Even the Savior forgave those who killed Him."

There it was.  A lesson.  I sat there stunned.  He was right.

That very day I was taught a life point.  We can learn something from anyone. 

Why do we as human beings hold grudges?  Why do we refuse to forgive and forget?  In reality, it isn't just those we offend who suffer.  We slowly become stifled and fenced in by our refusal to let things go.  The man's "friends" were also trapped.

Some prisons don't have walls.

Diary of a Wimpy Dad

I have noticed many transformations as I’ve aged.  It’s not like I’m a dinosaur, but things have changed.  For example, when I step into the chair to get my haircut I can count on whoever is doing the shearing honors to gently clip away the hair between my eyebrows.  A couple of years back, I got a nose hair clipper from my wife as a gift.  (In all fairness I had reluctantly asked for this item, which I now use on a regular basis.)  I’m only 37, and it is apparent that I will be up for a role on Planet of the Apes by the time I hit 53.  It isn’t just physical changes either.  I find myself making stupid jokes; stupid dad jokes.  I can’t help it.  It’s simply what us dads do.

One of these changes has been a long time in the making:  I’ve turned into a wimp.  I’m not talking about my muscles or my ability to keep up with my 12-year-old son.  I can still take him down when I want to . . . at least for now.  I’m talking about my emotions; in particular I’m talking about my emotions when it comes to children.

I remember the first time I noticed this less than macho trait.  It was in 2000.  My son was then only two years old.  I heard a story on the news about another two-year-old, Gage Wayment.  Gage’s father had left him in the truck, asleep, while he hunted in the mountains.    The father’s heart must have exploded with fear when he returned to the truck and Gage was nowhere to be found.  Five days later, they found Gage’s frozen little body. 

As this story churned in my mind, I pictured my tiny two-year-old wandering through the forest, “Dada? ‘Er go?  Dada?”  The story went from churning in my mind to stirring in my heart.  Tears burst from my swollen eyes as I put myself in this father’s place.  I was a wimp.  A big, fat, blubbering wimp.

This “wimpyness” has not gotten any better since then.  In fact, it may have developed even more.  Whenever I hear stories about kids who have suffered it slashes at my heart.  

Recently, on my birthday as a matter of fact, a fourteen-year-old boy in our area was on his way to a youth activity at his church.  He, like many kids that age, loves to spend time on his long board.  So, he was carving a path down the street when a girl, on her way to the same activity, slammed into him with her car.  Right there, not a block from his church, he died.  His young heart stopped beating, forever searing a hole in his mother’s heart.  

I weep.

What is this feeling?  Why does having kids or getting older bring it on?  I think I’ve determined what it is:  it is love.  It’s love for people I’ve never met.  It’s love for my own children.  It’s love for all of mankind.  Having children has made me somehow less selfish towards the feelings of others.  I’ve also determined something else: I am not a wimp.  I’m a man.  I love.  Is there anything more manly?

Sledgehammer

I am the luckiest man alive.  Anyone who knows my wife would agree.  There are many things I appreciate about her.  After fourteen years of marriage, things just keep getting better. 

So, you are wondering to yourself, why is this post named "Sledgehammer".  Marriage and sledgehammers don't seem to go together.  I'll be the first one to conceded that point.  On further examination, however, go together they do.

Several years ago we purchased our first home.  It was a multilevel with a walk-in master closet and the ugliest green kitchen tile I have still ever seen.  One of the "features" I first noticed about our new place of residence was a stunning several-hundred-pound paperweight on the side of the home; a solid mass of concrete deposited as a housewarming gift by the previous owner.  Being a man, and a smart one at that, I quickly got to work on the issue.

"Honey, I was thinking we should buy a sledgehammer."  Creases appeared between her nose and forehead.  Sensing the quizzical attitude I continued, "You know, so I can break up that block of concrete and haul it off."

"Hummm.  Do you think you need a sledgehammer to do that?" 

What else am I going to use, my bare hands?  "I think it could be exactly what I need.  I don't know, I've never broken up a large piece of concrete before.  But I need something."

"I don't know, we just spent a lot of money on our house.  Maybe it could wait?"

"I really don't think it's that big of a deal to buy a sledgehammer," I said.

"Do you think we could rent one."

Rent one?  I picture myself skipping up to the customer service at Home Depot and asking the lady behind the counter if she could please rent me a $20 piece of equipment.  Rent one?

To be honest, I can't remember everything that was said.  I do remember we had a fairly lengthy conversation.  We discussed items such as where would we keep such a fine object.  I assured her there was plenty of room in the garage.  We did own one now, after all.  Besides, I didn't want a mammoth sized one, only one big enough to perform a little surgery on a block of concrete.

"Where in the garage would we put it?"  She adjusted her shoulders in that way she has since the day we met, the way I love. 

"I think it would fit fine in the tool box."

"Wait a second, didn't you say you want a sledgehammer?"

"Uh, yeah, that what I said.  I want a sledgehammer."  I've had enough of her little attitude.  I tap out a hammering motion with my hand.

Both of her hands spring to life in front of her.  "Isn't a sledgehammer the thing I see them using to work on roads?"  A loud stuttering sound pounds from her mouth; as she mimics the motion of a jackhammer with her arms. 

We have laughed about this episode many times.  For the most part we communicate extremely well.  However, we have worked through several "sledgehammer moments" in our marriage since then.  

How many "sledgehammers" do you have in your life? 

I have one in my toolbox if you need to borrow it.