Carried by the Wind: Filling the Creative Well (Offering 12.1)
Into the wilderness, away from the noise.
Here we enter a new phase—Carried by the Wind—where transformation begins to move outward, carried into the world like butterflies on the breeze. This chapter starts simply: a tenth anniversary, a backpack, and five days in the Goat Rocks Wilderness with Shon and Seren—laughing until our cheeks hurt, and slowly remembering how to breathe.
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Filling the Creative Well
“One small change creates unseen ripples across a larger system.
We are the butterflies and every choice we make has long-lasting effects that we may not be able to immediately see.”
~ Jennifer Johnson, from The Butterfly Effect
Some days, being in society is just too much. While I don’t get to pull the literal covers over my head and stay in bed—as if my kid would let that happen—I do take breaks from the noise, particularly the news.
Shon and I marked our 10th wedding anniversary while he was going through cancer treatment. In need of a deep disconnect and renewal, we honored this milestone by unplugging and hiking into the Goat Rocks Wilderness for five days, bringing only what we could carry on our backs. There, surrounded by raw beauty, we tested our strength against the mountains, taking Seren on her burliest backpacking trip yet. We split the six-mile, all-uphill hike into two days to make it possible—Seren had just turned six, Shon was one week out from his next cancer treatment, and I was dealing with chronic pain.
At our campsite that first night, we were all exhausted. After dinner, Shon and Seren escaped the mosquitos while I tidied up our camp. The two of them cuddled up in the tent as Shon told a familiar story from his childhood about the time he went camping with his dad in Colorado and they heard a ‘bear’ scratching on the tent. His dad, in a moment of brave absurdity, took Shon’s brand-new two-inch Swiss Army knife to protect them, clutching that little knife as both of them huddled in fear for hours, certain that the ‘bear’ would tear down the tent and come after them.
Listening from outside the tent where I was washing dishes, I dissolved in helpless laughter, knowing how the story ended—not with a bear, but with a branch scratching the fabric of the tent. Shon caught my giggle bug and started laughing uncontrollably. Seren laughed too, but she also wanted to hear the rest of the story. He tried to continue telling his tale and couldn’t—every time he started, we both broke down all over again, laughing until tears streamed down our cheeks, my smile plastered across my face so manically that my cheeks hurt.
We were alone in the wilderness, society miles and miles away, laughing until we couldn’t laugh any more, soaking into the moment with gratitude.
The next day we hiked up and up, above the tree line, high into the alpine, with a new lightness in our steps. Together, we reveled in the wildflowers animated with hundreds of butterflies, some settling on our toes and tickling our fingertips. We marveled at the panoramic vistas, unmarred by human development, and grazed on wild mountain huckleberries, our fingers stained purple. Seren and I climbed rock waterfalls and huge boulders simply because we could. We moved at the pace of the land itself, letting the stresses and tensions of everyday life melt away, like the glacier near our campsite. On a calm afternoon I settled into the wilderness to write as Shon and Seren filled water at the nearby stream…
A clear mountain lake is before me, steep, rocky cliffs on three sides. I sit at the mouth of the creek, almost eye level with the lake, soothed by the gurgling water.
A breeze keeps the flies at bay, well, mostly at bay. I watch as the colors constantly change with the ripples on the water’s surface, reflecting all.
As I look at the high cliffs above, I see a woman’s face etched in the rock. There is a patch of snow below her, melting and running down a tiny ravine in the rocks. I imagine shifting the water’s flow to run from her eye: melting glaciers and sea level rise.
I think about drawing what I see in front of me and in my imagination, but I just look. And write. I feel the stillness settle over me as I sit, filling my creative well.
Filling my soul.
There is an Ebb and Flow to the creative life. We need time to rest, to gather imagery and ideas. These are creativity’s seeds. They will be released as the seasons change and I’m back home in my studio. I Trust that when the time is ripe, the artistic ideas will flow.
Returning to nature, especially when I carry all my things on my back—especially in the untouched wilderness, far from cars and computers and distraction—fills me in such a profound way. Everything is slow. All there is to do is immerse in the connection, the calm, the beauty. Let the world around me be my teacher. Sink deeper into place, into wonder, into my love for Seren and Shon. Drink clear glacial water and submerge my feet in its icy coldness. Lose track of days and hours and minutes. And just be.
Where do you go—or what do you do—to fill your creative well?