Blooming in the Basement 9/19/2008

I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free ~Michelangelo

I am not sure where to begin, but one thing is for sure though, that it’s there inside me struggling to get free. I continuously deny my creative energy any place to dwell, mode to think, or chance to be. Down. Down. Back down. . . Some other day when I have more time and space; when I create that room of my own--the one that I’ve hardly began to dream up because dreaming it up will take about just as much energy as it will to make use of. It’s as though if I can dabble in a mess of creativity regularly, I’ll bloom again.

It happened one time in particular, my senior year of college, in Pullman, down in that basement room of mine, listening to Stephanie Dosen, while collaging bits and ramblings of what had recently broke me, my grand inspirations, or the things I thought I knew for sure. Although somewhat foggy, I can still recall how I felt that year and in what aspect it healed me. To get there, however, I fought a tiring battle, but in the end, learned to surrender my self, to me. During that time, I braved the rawness of every ache and moment of emptiness and loneliness, and let it wash over me. And I did so alone, free, and surprisingly, unafraid. Instead, I relished in the solitude.

May Sarton writes in Journal of Solitude:

With the return of cheerfulness I feel a sense of loss. The poems no longer flow out. I am more “normal” again, no longer that fountain of tears and intense feeling that I have been for months. Balance is achieved, or nearly. But at what price?

That year I spent down in that basement was both my sense of loss and cheerfulness. I stripped myself naked of every excuse I’d been making for my attitude, actions, and my relationships. I surrendered myself to my own madness, and luckily, I was still enough to feel what was happening inside me. I found I was much more fragile and vulnerable then I wanted to realize, but when I did, I bent carefully to grovel near the roots of my being.

I have a picture of that house somewhere. Maybe a picture of that basement, too. I should place it in a frame to remind me that even in a tiny, quiet basement bedroom one can bloom. All it really takes is the surrendering to one’s self, the stillness of solitude, and a pen and some paper.