Creativity in a Cardboard Box

If I were the sort to point fingers, I rather suppose that I could create an impressive list of reasons why I have neglected or maybe even lost interest in this project. I could blame the change in latitude and longitude for the snow days that have kept our children under my keep instead of inside the halls of academia. I could blame the nearly 600 boxes of shit that have amassed themselves in the garage of our rental home in what could possibly be argued as the worst move in the history of moving. I could even blame the demands placed upon me in trying to sort through the impressively daunting task of building a new home. The bottom line is, these would all be half-truths or perhaps worse . . . whole lies. True, we are indeed busy in the aftermath of our transfer back to the Continental United States, but between portaging the children, sending out resumes, housekeeping, tending to the plethora of details necessary for building our home, and on occasion sweating off some American blubber on a treadmill, there is a moment of silence here or there that one could pen a word or two if they were so inclined.

Absent a diagnosis of encephalitis lethargica, there doesn’t seem to be a justifiable reason why I have been so content with this lack of creative activity. As we busied ourselves sorting through boxes of ruined tchotchkes from our life “before France”, it hit me . . . I need to write again. With my canvases and paints packed away in a box that time seems to have forgotten and all other creative outlets barred by an otherwise very hectic existence, writing may well be the Levadopa needed to awaken me from this slumber that is starting to frankly bring me down. I fear that it may take some time to get my “mojo” back. As I sit here clacking away at my keyboard, I wonder if this writing will be as good as it once was. The content is there, I just worry that I somehow packed my creativity away in one of the boxes from France that has yet to be unpacked. We have been removed from our adoptive home for 3 months now and I personally am starting to feel some of the aftershock. Aside from the fact that I can’t get a decent baguette, an agreeable cheese or a bottle of wine that doesn’t curl my nose, it is the smallest of things that make me miss our time in France. It gets under your skin. It leave a mark. A void that, even though filled by the bounty that is our life in the US, is somehow lacking all the same. To be honest, I don’t miss the place as much as I miss the people. I miss my friends. I miss the bustle of life in the air. I miss the passion and the mystery. Was this France or simply a symptom of following the road less traveled by? Hard to say. Maybe a bit of both if I am to be honest.

Be that as it may, there is much to be appreciated here at “home”. Before we left France we had been told that we would be amazed at how quickly life seems to return to its “pre-expat” status. How quickly things return to “normal”. At the time, I didn’t take this as it was surely meant. It was a warning. One not to be dismissed by those who choose the life we have chosen. In time I have no doubt that my longings for the exotic will ebb, I only fear that it will somehow be buried or soon forgotten. I guess in the end, it is the adventure that I miss. The unknown . . . the magic , if you will. Perhaps the biggest lesson to learn here is that there is “magic” in life no matter where you reside, you simply have to look for it. It might be more difficult to find in your own back yard, but it is there. I hope that when I go digging, I will find it, or more importantly it will find me. It is with that hope that I will continue with this project and maybe . . . just maybe . . . you might want to come along for the ride. Until next time . . . Jack.