since oregon

Slightly over a month ago, I left from visiting an objectively beautiful place filled with charismatic people, stunningly unique landmarks, and a dynamic groundscape. Out there couldn’t have been less similar in presence to California, and I’ll admit, I assumed it’d be. There were things around, above, and below me that I hadn’t experienced before, and if I had, they still looked and felt different.

My appreciation for nature grew renewed. I hadn’t done as much stopping in my tracks to tinker with twigs since I was twelve. And for every maple and fir I passed while driving in the mountains, I thought deeply about its fate, and less about mine. The heaps of inspiration (and weirdness) are unbound out there. Like every big city, parts of Portland were covered in graffiti, but never too far away sits some breathtaking bay.

Since returning from my four-day trip, though, I’ve taken an important test, worked unconsciously full-time, and re-implemented running into my exercises. But I haven’t written very much, which has been uneasy.

The word shortage began stressing me out to a point where I started to wonder if it was writer’s block or if I seriously lost a step while spending so much time studying for that test over the last several months.

I’d create a document, type a few words, think my sentences were unpleasant, and then just close the computer. I hadn’t been called upon to freelance for a while, and some projects I was working on for other people stopped receiving attention.

An uncle whom I’ve always looked up to as a professional told me long ago, before I’d even finished high school, about the dangers of mixing business with friendship. The only problem is that he’s never worked in a creative industry, such as the BBC.

I’ve understood for many years now that writing is my most skillful contribution to creative endeavors. But writing finishes as a close first, beside a lane occupied by a more naturally coded strength — observing.

For as long as I can remember, whether I was upset or deadlocked on something interesting, I’ve been a master of sitting silently for hours to watch and listen. Ultimately, this led me to choose journalism as a college major and the first step into a profession. Fly on the wall.

If I gather enough information about anything, I can probably think of multiple different ways to write about it. But the other aspect of what makes writing so instinctive for me is Wonder— which is the name of my favorite childhood book. It’s also what’s kept me on my toes about trusting in those I create with.

While making things with others, we perform best if there’s an absolute degree of patience and compassion for each of the involved roles. It’s important to maintain that understanding especially if the work requires sternness and honesty. I withdraw all of my trust in a group if those aren’t constants.

Once those values are lost, the project becomes something I’d never want my work to be, made solely to impress an audience — having no consideration for the creators’ devotion. Of course we all want to go further, but I can’t call something art if it’s born to become a sale.

Somewhere during those drives through the mountains, I realized how easy it is to keep moving when there’s a visible path in front of you. Even when the roads twisted or disappeared behind fog for a moment, there was still somewhere to go next. Creating doesn’t always feel like that. Sometimes there’s no clear trail, no signs, no reassuring voice reminding you that you’re headed somewhere worthwhile. You just keep moving anyway, hoping the instincts that carried you this far still know the way.

Over the years, I’ve met a lot of friends the same way everyone else does: growing up in the same place, having common interests, or doing activities in the same space. More recently, though, I’ve connected with quite a few people from a heavily creative position. Unfortunately in some instances, it’s helped build somewhat transactional relationships. Of course, with them comes the “low maintenance” friendship, which I personally think is just a perch for those who don’t want to acknowledge they’re bad at being a true friend to sit on. Maybe I’m overly observant in thinking that, but I’ve also formed some great friendships through those same creative values, ones that will last for a very long time.

If you stop reading this and close it with nothing else, please pull some armor from what I’ve tried to stockpile. I hope this makes you more extensively consider how serious your work is to yourself, so you’ll better protect it.

Whether it’s something big or small, you should be the one who values it the most. Take great caution in how many times you allow your work to be shrunken by someone else.

It’s never fun when you have to force yourself to stop doing something you were eager to finish, or to exclude yourself from whatever gave you anticipation. Particularly when it relates to art, I’m genuinely unsure that there’s anything close to its effect on your conscience.

But to quote a favored show and favored song of mine, “chaos is a ladder,” and “we only grow from anguish.” Once those kinds of relationships or projects reach a stopping point, it’s never the end of what you’re capable of doing on your own, or with new people.

The sun comes out, and its singing light usually yells at you that there’s still time and you’re still good at what you do. Pick up the pieces and build something new.

Over the past few years, I’ve had to grow more appreciative of all of my bylines because my work has become more than just a hobby. I’ve been paid consistently to do the things I’m best at, and whether or not I’ll be doing them forever is still in the air.

But what I damn sure won’t ever do is stop feeding my fire if I’m lost in the woods.

I guess my trip to Oregon reminded me of that.