I don’t know about you, but when I hit 40, it seemed like a clock started ticking. I had so many things I wanted to do, and suddenly I was aware of my mortality. Nine years later, I felt disappointed and even resentful of myself. I hadn’t saved enough money, spent nearly enough time outdoors, or finished my novel. I had, however, developed a phobia of driving on the highway or in any unfamiliar city. My world was getting smaller, and I was feeling trapped, like I’d boxed myself into a corner. I kept hearing myself say, “I used to be interesting” or “I used to have an interesting life,” and as 50 approached, a sense of urgency about living more fully washed over me.
Something weird was happening, too. For months, nearly every night, I’d awaken around 2am with a strange and discomfiting sensation in the lower part of my chest, like someone was pouring hot liquid over me, but from inside me. It wasn’t heartburn. I didn’t have any pain, shortness of breath or other symptoms of a heart attack. I saw a cardiologist, and my EKG, echo-cardiogram, and stress test were normal. But night after night, I’d be pulled out of my sleep, albeit gently, by this unnerving, uncomfortable heat around my heart.
I mentioned this baffling happening to a dear friend who is a therapist and mindfulness expert.
He told me with certainty, “You’re meant to create, so do something creative, and it’ll go away.”
Doing something creative wasn’t going to hurt me, so I doodled and tinkered a little bit on the piano. The sensation went away that very night. I kept it away by tying flies, journaling (using a beautiful fountain pen my husband gifted me), and seeking other opportunities to create.
I turned 50 in January of 2020, and I had big plans. I vowed to have a mid-life (I prefer “GenX”) awakening – to actively participate in making my life and myself interesting again. I started going to a yoga studio. I had a small birthday party and sang with our band (singing in front of people like that was something I never thought I’d do). I was on a roll and feeling really good. Then the coronavirus invaded — the dream crushing, demoralizing, party-pooping virus and the myriad of psychosocial ramifications of the never ending efforts to “flatten the curve.” The yoga studio closed. The band disbanded. What a year to attempt a renewal.
While I was 50, I did get two things checked off my list: kayaking and visiting Caddo Lake. Thanks to my friend and colleague Beka, I not only went kayaking, but I kayaked on Caddo Lake. It was magical, and I wanted a whole lot more of that kind of stuff. I wanted to get out in the wild and do brave things. During the day, I longed to see a horizon without man-made obstructions and during the night, only stars and the moon. I yearned to hear nothing but water moving, birds chirping, and other animal noises that might frighten me a bit. I wanted to scuff up my knees, go deer hunting again and take my time skinning and quartering my kill. (I know it sounds bizarre, but I find the process calming if I’m not rushed.)
Then I remembered a book from my graduate school days: Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, PhD. Rather, I remembered the title of the book. I couldn’t recall a thing from within it. I desperately wanted to read it, and I scoured our bookshelves with no luck. I noticed I’d accumulated a bunch of Audible credits, and they were going to vanish if I didn’t redeem them, so I downloaded the book. Immediately, I realized that my incredibly interesting twenty-something self had been too young to appreciate, much less commit to memory, the messages within the book. However, the words warmed the soul of my older, slightly bruised and battered self. Listening to Dr. Estés’ intoxicating voice, I felt like she was talking, not reading, to me. Only me. She was sharing with me, an audience of one, the stories her elders told her. I wished to continue our special time together, so I downloaded a bunch more of her books: Dangerous Old Woman, Mother Night, The Creative Fire and others. Right now, I’m listening to Late Bloomer in which she talks about El Duende, the creative fire burning within all of us.
I turned 51 while battling the coronavirus. I know symptoms vary (and for that reason I call it the psycho virus), but most people who’ve had the psycho virus understand the foggy brain and fatigue that come with it (and then linger). One afternoon, I was sitting on the couch, lifelessly staring at nothing while wondering if my sense of smell would ever return, and I felt that sensation stirring in me, only now it had a name. El Duende was giving me a gentle nudge. I didn’t have much energy to be creative, but I decided I could put a pencil to paper and sketch something. I sketch fairly well as long as the object is upside-down and I don’t think about what I’m drawing. It’s actually a technique described in Drawing from the Right Side of the Brain. (If you think you can’t draw, this might blow your mind.) I created a mediocre drawing of a flower. Then I sketched the worst pet I’ve ever had, Sicario the cat. I sketch or write every day. The hot, unnerving feeling in my chest hasn’t returned.
I believe God speaks to us softly and gives us gentle nudges. If we don’t listen, the Almighty will speak more loudly and even rattle us. Maybe El Duende works the same way. It starts as a little fire burning within us, and if ignored, it’ll get hot enough to wake us from a deep sleep (or cause angst, anxiety, restlessness, or feelings of a midlife crisis). While Dr. Estés writes like a poet, shares folktales, and elaborates beautifully about archetypes, our desire to create is concrete and undeniable. Trauma expert Bessel Van Der Kolk acknowledges this in The Body Keeps the Score. “We are designed to create,” he writes, “without imagination, there’s no hope.” There appears to be a spiritual and a scientific component to our drive to create, to make things.
When it comes to creating, especially later in life, our culture may tell us you’re too old, it’s been done, it’s not good enough, you’re too busy. In response to that, here’s a recommendation from Late Bloomer: “misbehave with integrity.” Do no harm to yourself or others, but misbehave. Misbehaving with integrity means we give the finger to those who try to tell us we’re to old or too busy or any of that nonsense.
I want my year of 51 to involve listening to Dr. Estes’ books, allowing my creativity to flow, and misbehaving with integrity. I plan to visit Caddo Lake many times, kayak with Beka, and identify other ways to be creative. Oh, yes, and publish my novel, which I have finally finished.
I’ll keep you posted, and let me know if you want to join in. Maybe it can be one of those challenges. Challenges are a thing, right? I promise my creativity won’t involve Gorilla Glue or eating Tide Pods.
http://www.clarissapinkolaestes.com/
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/313183/the-body-keeps-the-score-by-bessel-van-der-kolk-md/
When I learned our church would host Collin County’s Inaugural Martin Luther King, Jr. Appreciation Day Ceremony, I was thrilled. My daughter was scheduled to spend time with her biological father, but he texted me that he planned to bring her and one of her “besties.” He joked, “I’ll come. Your church needs more black people!”
In 2013, our community lost another child. We call her Baby Abby. She was an infant murdered by her parents. This act of violence didn’t receive much attention, but it rocked our community of Fire Fighters/EMT’s, Law Enforcement, Child Protective Services Caseworkers and Advocates. When a detective asked about a memorial service, our lead advocate made one happen. Everyone needed a place to come together and grieve. They needed to be around those who understood. I will never forget the sight of detectives and paramedics carrying Baby Abby’s tiny casket; it confirmed that the smallest caskets are indeed the heaviest. Organizing a memorial was the only thing the advocate could do, but it was a powerful something. 
D.W. Dobbs 