Being
Abnormal
“No
one yet has made a list of where the extraordinary may happen and where it may
not. Still, there are indications. Among crowds, in drawing rooms, among
easements and comforts and pleasures, it is seldom seen. It likes the out-of-doors.
It likes the concentrating mind. It likes solitude. It is more likely to stick
to the risk-taker that the ticket-taker. It isn’t that it would disparage comforts,
or the set routines of the world, but that its concern is directed to another
place. Its concern is the edge, and the making of form out of the formless that
is beyond the edge.”
Mary
Oliver (Upstream, p. 28; Penguin Press, 2016)
In
Upstream, Mary Oliver wrote about the requirements of the creative life—solitude
that does not surrender to social intrusion, its own hours, its own
direction and timing. It cannot be thought up, nor rushed, nor captured in an
outline or a timetable. An acquaintance of mine is trying to write a novel, while
still working at a day-job. She has a ton of research to do into the time and
place of her story and was asking questions about her protagonist; how she should
create her, and what personality she might give her. As though we get to do
that, as though the character were an inanimate object to be sculpted into a
particular form. In my meager experience, that is not the way the process works—instead,
you ask the character who she is, what she’s like and then you follow her lead.
Otherwise, she will rebel and make a terrible scene, or she will simply depart.
The creative life is mostly one of listening and following, not leading. And
the environment must be free from distractions, which is why so many artists of
all stripes go away from home for extended periods to work.
It’s
not that extraordinary things never happen in crowds—we just witnessed the
Super Bowl, and I am pretty sure most of the fans thought it was extraordinary.
I, myself, love to watch videos of flash mobs on YouTube—but they are almost
always planned and executed ahead of time, rather than creative in the moment. Living
a creative life often means that you forget things, lose track of the “real
world,” because you are, in Mary Oliver’s words, “in another world altogether.”
We are rightfully accused, and often accuse ourselves, of being absent minded,
restless, heedless of social norms and observations, and sometimes simply “out
of it.” When my sons talk about things that happened in their childhoods, I ask them, “Where was I?” and they almost always tell me, “You were there,
Mom. Don’t you remember?” Well, I may have been there physically, but my mind
was a million miles away. Sometimes I feel sad over how much I missed even though
I was there.
Being
a creative person means that you will not fit in. You will not be mainstream,
nor will you even understand what makes one mainstream—or, for that matter, why
anyone would want to be mainstream. “Normal” is on a different scale from the
rest of humanity, and I must say that sometimes, it’s lonely. But not often.
Mostly, creative people would rather be consumed by their passion, while submerged
in their creative process, than making small talk or socializing. Most of the
time, being normal will not be desirable.
If you happen to be one
of the creative folk, one that is misfit and misunderstood, know that you are
part of a brotherhood, a tribe, and don’t be afraid to claim it. Your
contribution to life is essential because your job is to move our species forward—beyond
the edge. If you are pushing the boundaries, then you are doing what God created
you to do. And no one can do better than that.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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