How My Creations Change Me

Have you ever spent time appreciating how something you created changed you?

How you changed during its creation.

How you changed because of it.

The first thing I think of when I think of a creation - after Frankenstein’s Monster, of course - is one’s children. I am not, however, a parent. That may come as no surprise. I’ve never created a living, breathing human being (just fictional ones), but I can still imagine a shift one might feel when they realize they’re either pregnant or have gotten someone pregnant. I suppose it might be a kind of fear or a kind of excitement or something in between. I’m beyond lucky that I’ve only experienced about a half of a day’s worth of a pregnancy scare. After peeing on several sticks from Giant Eagle’s pharmacy section, it was suggested to me that my nausea was likely caused by my need for an eye exam and glasses. Relief washed over me that day. Choosing or deciding to be a parent is a lifestyle change I was never willing to entertain.

Other people’s children have changed me, though. My ex, Aaron - I came into his son’s life when the kid was only 3 years old. The first time I met him, I spoke to him in a voice that was two octaves higher and I over-pronounced my long name assuming he wouldn’t be able to manage it. He pronounced it just fine - better than many grown ups, in fact - then bopped off to go do something else. From that point forward, I’ve spoken to all kids in the same tone of voice I would use with you. Though I have learned that there are certain age groups that have not yet learned sarcasm.

I was in his life for another 16 years. Of course he made an impact on me, even though he lived in Cleveland and we lived in Columbus. Because of the distance, though, I missed the majority of his teenage years.

Oh, but what I missed with him, I made up for when I met Clint and his kids. Since I never had any of my own, and I was a terror to my mother from the ages of 12 to 18, I fully considered all of this to be Kid Karma. I don’t know if I ever would have made a good mother, but I certainly gained more respect for the job. Jesus. If I think it’s hard managing the young women that work with me, I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to be largely responsible for their entire being.

Since kids have never really been my forte, I’m thankful that other humans aren’t the only things one can create. In my lifetime, I’ve created lots of things: pictures, stories, spaces, drama, messes, dresses, meals, and other odds and ends.

To be sure, the act of creating and the act of being creative are different; one does not suppose the other. They are not mutually exclusive. I’ve created plenty without any creativity. And I’ve been in a creative mood yet created nothing, unless frustration and self-annoyance count.

Whether I created creatively or created without imagination, what strikes me is the change it creates in me.

From a muffin to a mountain, to make the thing, first I had to learn, dig, research, or contemplate. While my mother might have insisted that I was an artist, nothing has come to fruition solely because of something deeply innate in me. Even writing. Even this.

Writing, for me, is hard. There are days, like today, when pulling words out of my head and forming them into coherent and moderately interesting sentences is like those dreams I have when I’m trying to run but my feet are stuck in molasses. To get any kind of momentum, I have to pull on the ground like I’m trying to run like a dog. It’s a slog and I’m not really sure if I’m getting anywhere. But I keep at it because I’m pretty sure I have something to say.

To write stories, I’ve researched dragons and dinosaurs, ancestry and history, maps and magic. An opening line might be the start of it, but to get to the end I require paper and rulers, spreadsheets and murder boards, and lots and lots of Post-It Notes.

During the process of writing, much like the first mile of a run or the first splotchy layer of a watercolor, I wonder why I do this and if I’m even doing it somewhat well. After I get through it - and all the edits I should make - I feel a sense of accomplishment. Like at the end of a long run. Like when I think I’ve done all I can to make the splotches look like a flower.

In that regard, I certainly didn’t make any of my fledgling watercolor paintings purely on instinct. It started with a teacher and from her I gained a spark of confidence and the beginning of inspiration. Even with inspiration, though, every time I sketch or paint, I feel the battle in my brain between what I know to be true versus what I actually see. It’s tiring, really. Perhaps that’s why when I finally paint something I like, I sit back and regard it while bathing in the glow of my creative exhaustion.

When I first opened my yoga studio, I created what I thought was best. At first, I sat in the middle of the floor and let the space inform me. That was a bit of a challenge since I’d taken over the lease from a woman who had used the space as a muffin shop. One accent wall was painted in thick black and white vertical strips. All the rest were Pepto-Bismal pink. And everything was covered in sparkling sugar. The ants loved it. Once I lit some incense, hit some bells, and repainted the walls, the energy of the space started to come together.

Then, after the students came and moved within it, I adjusted based on their energy, the shapes they made, and everyone’s unique qi (chi).

My experience creating the space for the wine shop was similar, though without the sugar and ants. Through the brick and concrete and random crap from other projects, I envisioned what the space might look like, and also what it might feel like. We painted the walls, built the bar and shelves, and installed the lighting that we thought created the right mood.

There is a kind of similarity in writing a story, painting a watercolor, and creating a space. At some point during the life of the thing, I feel a familiar push and pull between my creation and myself. These are the moments when I want the thing to be a certain way but the thing is telling me it’s different now. Like when I was a frustrated teenager in that terrible space and time when I still lived at home yet wanted my independence.

With stories and paintings and spaces, at a certain point, I have to find what Taoists call the watercourse way. The path of least resistance. Stop trying to spawn upstream. Stop fighting it. What I’ve learned about myself is that if I’m working too hard to fit a thing into what I think it should be, what I really need to do is step back and stop pushing. Sometimes the pieces fall into place on their own. I learn about my fears in these moments. Usually not a fear of failure, but instead the fear of success. What if this thing is bigger than I intended it to be? What if it does well but I’m not willing to adjust? What will I lose? What can I stand to gain?

My creations are interesting mirrors. They’re a reflection of who I was when I built the thing, but they also show me what I’ve become. There are days when I don’t look in the mirror. When I leave the house and just assume there’s nothing in my teeth and my hair is acceptably out of place. That can’t be everyday, though.

What looking in the mirror offers me is a moment to pause. Take a look at where I am. Consider where I’m going. Is this the person I want to bring with me? Is this the person I want to be?

Since my daily life is also a creation, it serves me to write in my journal every morning and reflect on these questions. Who am I? Do I like who I’ve become? Do I want to keep going in this direction?

This is something I do in 3- and 6-month intervals. Not consciously, but regularly. I became aware of this in my 30s and I started to do it intentionally with my yoga studio in my 40s. I would try something new and give it three months to either work or wither. A new class, a series, a schedule. I’d commit to sticking with it to see if I liked it and if it caught on with other people. Then, I’d build in a rest/pivot week to adjust as needed and either keep going or try something new.

That was fun for me. I built all kinds of classes using that model. After a year and a half of doing this, I realized I was following the seasons. That made so much sense once I noticed it. In teaching yoga, I became more aware of the ebb and flow of my energy and how that would then affect my studio and my students.

Now, my big creation is my wine shop. The ebbs and flows are the same. The difference is that the stakes are somewhat higher.

In nine months, we’ve gone through a number of changes and iterations. I’ve experimented with events, wines, price points, layout, and employees. I’ve modified my work schedule, my temperament, and lifestyle. What’s happened is that my life is now something I didn’t want it to become.

Stuck. Inflexible. Not me.

There are a lot of reasons I wanted to open this wine shop and the thing is that they all came true. I got to learn more about good, natural wine. I got to make more connections around Virginia. I got to learn more about Petersburg. I got to meet more people and become closer to the community. I got to create a welcoming, comfortable space where I would want to write, teach classes, and enjoy a glass of Bordeaux. I created my little piece of Paris, my morsel of Missoula, my part in Petersburg.

When people ask me how the shop is doing, I pause because the answer is that it is exactly what I hoped it would be, it’s just not doing well financially. That’s no surprise for a new business in its first year. In Petersburg. Around all the construction, improvements though they may be. In the economy we’re in. And toss in any of the things that I could have done more of or could have done differently.

What I’ve learned from this thing that I and my team created is that I need something different. The way my energy works doesn’t fit with the existing business model. And so, I’m going to change it. At our one year anniversary, we’re closing. Or, really, we’re evolving. We’re adjusting and changing. And we’ll see what happens.

In the past nine months, I’ve learned what I hoped to learn and so much more. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, for sure. Probably more days than not, I wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I knew it in my bones. I saw it in myself. I felt it in my heartbeat. What’s worse is that I brought that person home.

I’m not a bartender. I’m not a cook. I’m not good at being “on” for so long.

I am a teacher. I write and do Thai massage. I am an empath.

What I need is smaller chunks of time that I engage with people. What I need is to engage in a more meaningful way.

Years ago, during a meditation teachers’ training, my personal mantra came to me:

• Honor my energy

• Honor my passion

• Honor my authentic self

For several months, I’ve been trying to fit my energy, passion, and self into something it would never mold to. The container is too confined. That’s ironic, though. This wide open schedule where anyone can come in and you never know what could happen is too binding for me. It makes me feel like I’m in a straight-jacket. A smaller, more defined schedule, with some parameters, however, allows my skin to relax.

This wine shop has been part of a longer journey to finding a more clear definition of who I am. Mostly, I’ve learned who I’m not. I think the truth is that I figured it out a while ago, who I am. Now I just need to accept it. Lean into it. Honor it. What I’ve learned from all of the things that I’ve ever created is that when I do a thing that flows with my energy, aligns with the things I’m good at and enjoy doing, and allows me to fully be myself, it flourishes.

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