Since this is a blog about creative journeys, I am going to tell you a bit about mine. All journeys start at the beginning. I don’t want to bore you all at once, so it will be a series of posts. I almost feel silly about writing about my one little life when the world population, according to Wordometer.com, is 8.2 billion and every one of these humans has a to story to tell.
I would encourage every one of those 8.2 billion to find a way tell their story. We cannot allow our individuality to be devalued just because we are one of several billion. In the world’s system, rarity increases value and quantity decreases it.
I live in rural Virginia and love to walk in my meadows. The first buttercup of spring is a thing of wonder, a precious jewel, its tender cupped petals glowing in the sun. But two days later when the meadows are bright yellow with thousands of buttercups, I tend to lose the wonder. But that is merely due to a weird, jaded quality of the human mind, the quality of being ever fearful of being taken in, swindled, used by someone cleverer. It’s probably a caution that evolved from a primal fear of predators. “Oh,” says the human mind contemptuously. “I mistook a common weed for a precious jewel. I won’t make that mistake again! Now I am wise to the trick.” As if nature is trying to fool us. A larger, perhaps eternal mind knows that each buttercup is equally as wondrous as that first pioneer.
To value your life’s journey enough to tell it or express it through art, is an an act of defiance in the face of the world system that wants to convince you that you are of little value outside your utility to the system. The world system tells you the masses of humans are weeds. We need to recognize the lie. The minute you speak, the minute you tell your story, you have distinguished yourself, shouted the truth that each human being is of infinite value.
The miracle is that every soul is a world unto itself with the intersections between each soul infinite. Also infinite is our appetite for stories. There may be a time and place where one could reach a point of story satiation but I, for one, am nowhere near that point.
The beginning of my story
To plot myself in history and place, I was born 1962 in Washington DC to a father of Polish origin and a mother of Italian and Slovak origin. I was the eldest of four, two sisters and a brother, and was raised Roman Catholic in the Maryland DC burbs. I attended St. Bernadette Catholic School from first to eighth grade. The tuition when I started first grade in 1968 was $100 per family whether you had one kid or 13. And that tuition was a struggle for my parents.
Dad and me. 1963.
Since this blog focuses on creativity for everyone, especially those of us who have to work for a living, I will say money was most definitely a source of stress for my family, as is true for every family that does not have enough of it. We were not “dirt” poor—as my parents were growing up. My Dad would often tell us kids that we had no idea how lucky we were. We always had a fairly nice house and plenty of food.
But when it came to extras like clothing it always seemed like money was a source of stress. There were no savings and although I was always made to understand I must go to college, when it came time for college, there was no money in the bank to pay for it. Dad had achieved a two-year degree in drafting by going to night school, so he had a decent job with a HVAC engineering company. Mom stayed home until my youngest sister was in school and then started working first as a call center collector or Montgomery Ward, eventually working her way into various administrative positions until she ended up as a payroll manager for a large company.
To be continued….
Scribbleflowers Journal 