The Wisdom of Youth

My creativity has been stagnant. No, that is untrue. I have become very creative in avoiding my creativity. It takes a lot of time and energy to avoid writing, making art or playing music. My creativity sneaks out from time to time, but I hardly recognize it anymore.  

One of my teachers recently told me that one of the keys to creativity is youthfulness. She recommended reconnecting with my 15-year-old-self because teenagers are fearless, often outspoken and rash. A buffet of possibility lies ahead of them, and they enthusiastically belly up to the table, ready to feast on life experiences. And if that isn’t a recipe to feed creativity, I don’t know what is.

What would my free-spirited teenaged self say to me now? Most likely, after she recovered from the shock of how old I am now, she would shake her head and say, “Here we go again!”

I have a clear window into my teenaged years. I wrote long letters to my then boyfriend, later husband, as we were separated by half the world. We wrote letters every day for two years during our time apart. I was sixteen, planning my life. Those letters were a polaroid of my daily activities, unfiltered thoughts, as well as my future hopes and dreams. Some days those letters would be fourteen pages long.

One day, many years later, my adult-self sat on a cold basement floor and reread all those letters I wrote, and I fell in love again. Not with my husband, as he had hoped, but with my sixteen-year-old self. She was a familiar stranger to me, and she was delightful. She was so alive, full of hope and promise. My current world was bitter and confused, settled but far from comfortable. She breathed new life into me as I rediscovered her. I cried as if I were greeting an old friend, a lost loved one, after too long of an absence. I could hear her laughter, feel her joy. She danced, she wrote music, and she found her voice in those letters. She was happy.

We all have defining moments in our lives, those snapshots that are forever framed in our minds for all time. For me, it was refolding my old letters, returning the dusty box to the shelf and vowing to reclaim my life. It was terrifying to think of leaving the life I chose to build but honestly, it was as if I had no choice. I longed to be joyful and playful again, and yes, creative. I knew I could no longer keep living by anyone else’s expectations of who I am, or should be, but as my authentic self I encountered in those letters. That teenager had relit a fire in me I had nearly allowed to be snuffed, thankfully the embers still glowed, they only needed air, some space.

It has been nearly a quarter of a century since that day on my basement floor – so many lifetimes ago. I barely recognize the girl, wife and young mother in the woman I am today, and yet I feel I have come full circle. Age has gifted me a similar, yet wiser, version of my teenaged self.

My world is larger now, and I am no longer the center of the universe. I am is no longer defined by my past, nor my future. I am honored by all my past choices and decisions, even those times I chose not to choose, for each choice directed my path as it was intended. Perhaps I am not as carefree as my teenaged self, but I am no longer held hostage by my perceived adult responsibilities, the vagaries of everyday life, nor the ghosts of loves lost. I am free to create from a completely new place. My world is again filled with possibility.

So, what would my teenaged-self say to my sixty-something year old self now? I think she would nod and say, “Good for you, Grandma!” She knows I did not age combatively, kicking and screaming against the passages of time. She knows I no longer see life through a lens of victimhood, suffering my circumstances through the winds of fate and refusing to see my part in my own play. Every decade has brought new lessons, experiences and soul growth.

She would say I have earned all my wrinkles because I have laughed more than I cried. She knows I have always shown my emotions on my face, each line shows how deeply I care.

She would laugh at my bewilderment over my saggy breasts and belly. She knows I bore two large, healthy babies from my little body. She knows I mothered fiercely, with all my heart and soul, and my body is testament to that love, and would do so again without hesitation.

She honors my achy joints, aching from the weight I have carried in order to lighten the load of those I love. She bears witness to the times I danced under the moonlight and stooped under the weight of loss.

And she tenderly holds my hands. She sees my hand differently than I do. She knows my hands are capable of great healing and tenderness. She sees how my hands have created beauty through art, food and music. She sees how my hands are conduits of great energy and love.

She also knows my every heartache was an opportunity to grow, learn and love differently.

I promise her I will continue to learn, grow and love. I will channel her curiosity, as that is the true secret of youth and creativity. And yes, I will make art again.

We aren’t finished yet, my inner teenager and I still have work to do together. We both know the best adventures are yet to come and she wants to be my travel guide so I don’t get lost again. I remind her to respect her elders. And we both laugh.

What would your 15-year old self say to you now? I promise you; it will be an interesting conversation.