The subject of creativity is a small but frisky player in the current academic landscape; and many creative people over the years have been inspired to describe the process of creativity itself, in their own work and in the abstract.
After a couple of navel-gazing recent blogs, let's raise our eyes heavenward (or at least to eye level) by acknowledging some of the provocative statements about creativity that artists, scholars, and philosophers have made.
Here in Midland, Michigan, we are proud of the architect Alden B. Dow, who in his later years wrote extensively about the creative process and the benefits of creativity to humanity, and even made valiant efforts to capture in words the nature of creativity in the abstract. His writings include an elaborate and colorful 8-part visual representation of a process that constantly renews itself, which he named "A Way of Life Cycle." In this cycle, he links creativity to innovation, observing that creativity is "our unique abilities" which, "when put together, naturally create comething new." The actor Alan Alda was on the same wavelength when he said, "The creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself." To view the complete Way of Life cycle envisioned by Alden B. Dow, visit http://www.northwood.edu/abd/aldenbdow/awayoflifecycle/.
The July 28 issue of The New Yorker carries an article by Jonah Lehrer, "The Eureka Hunt," reporting on studies in brain science that seek to identify the process of arriving at an insight. Lehrer quotes researcher Earl Miller, an MIT neuroscientist: "An insight is a restructuring of information--it's seeing the same old thing in a completely new way." Miller's studies of the operations of the prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain that bulges behind the forehead) suggest that many times our brain has arrived at the answer to a problem before our conscious mind knows about it. This is why we have the "Eureka!" experience, an instant recognition that we have found a long-sought answer. Miller says, "Your consciousness is very limited in capacity and that's why your prefrontal cortex makes all these plans without telling you about it."
Sometimes we can only "invite the Muse," or experience creativity, by sneaking up on it.
Intense focus and concentration can lead to diminished creativity. "If you want to encourage insights, then you've got to encourage people to relax," advises scientist John Kounios of Drexel University, quoted in Lehrer's article. A.A. Milne, children's author and creator of the beloved character Winnie the Pooh, would agree. He said, "One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."
Speaking of Winnie the Pooh, I love the words of Pablo Picasso, "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." Many adults seek to recapture the feeling of play in order to create. Pressure, deadlines, evaluations, judgments can deaden the atmosphere for innovation, whether in business, in artistic work, or in research. The only option to finding something new is to continue to make do with the old. And, as Alden B. Dow advised, it is creativity that "provides the human expressions that can aid the progress and welfare of mankind. The products of creativity help satisfy man's ever-increasing needs."
If it does not seem as though human desires are going to disappear, then we need creativity.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
It's All Good
Today two teen-agers dropped in on me at the office. With the length of my to-do list, I would not have brooked an interruption from an adult, but somehow, perhaps as a result of occupying the role of grandmother for part of each week, I am not able to tell innocently trusting souls that I have no time for them. The interruption changed the planned flow of my afternoon, but it also brought me the welcome gift of a tranquil state of mind.
After the unexpected visit was over, I had returned to my work when another unexpected interruption arose, from an employee who is not a teen-ager. Normally I would be ungracious or even surly about this, but because I had been softened up by the kids I was patient with the interruption. I thought about what I wanted to say and do; and then I thought about what would be pleasant to say and do; and I chose the latter.
These two small incidents made me reflect on the inward standards that I apply when I choose to hold people accountable for their behavior. I certainly expect far more from adults than from teens; more from teens than from young children; more from young children than from babies. More from experienced adults than from rookies; more from community elders than from the middle-aged. I have a structured set of expectations that I apply based on my assessment of what the other person should know or understand. I believe that mature people should exercise good judgment, should foresee problems and act to forestall them, should plan ahead, should practice good time management, should be unselfish, should be practical, should be wise.
It will not surprise the thoughtful reader when I write that I am frequently frustrated, stressed, and disappointed.
I can remember being angry when a well-paid person did not perform at a high level. I can remember scorning someone with an advanced degree who did not exhibit excellent judgment. I can remember many moments when I compared what the universe was delivering to me with the concept that I was seeking to impose on the universe. No matter how I would rage, of course, the universe never changed what was on offer. Instead, I would hurt someone's feelings or isolate myself in order to preserve my opinion. Either way, I never won. The universe won every time. And the universe has gone on delivering whatever it darn well pleases without much regard for my opinions.
But don't we have to have standards? How can you supervise workers without expecting things from people? How can you prepare children for life if you let them do whatever they want all the time? What about aesthetics? What about productivity? What about justice?
I have recently felt a mild irritation each time I hear the catch phrase currently much in use as a slang way of saying "No worries," (I think): "It's all good." The mild irritation seems to arise from my suspicion that I don't really get the meaning of the phrase. It is a phrase used by people much younger than I. I suspect that they don't really understand what's going on, or they would never say or believe that it's all good. These might be people who don't think things through, or take precautions, or save for a rainy day. "It's all good," you say? You don't know the half of it.
But, this afternoon, I can say with the youngest of them, "It's all good." I am not going to get to the end of my to-do list. I am not going to accomplish most of the goals I set this morning. I certainly didn't set the goal of ending my day in a state of peaceful reflection, facing some of my shortcomings and telling you about them in a friendly and frank recital. Who knew that letting the universe win would feel so good?
Thank you, interrupters. You interrupted a sterile concept in mid-flight and replaced it with the nourishment of reality. On the side of the angels? You bet, if the angels are the messengers of the universe. It's all good.
After the unexpected visit was over, I had returned to my work when another unexpected interruption arose, from an employee who is not a teen-ager. Normally I would be ungracious or even surly about this, but because I had been softened up by the kids I was patient with the interruption. I thought about what I wanted to say and do; and then I thought about what would be pleasant to say and do; and I chose the latter.
These two small incidents made me reflect on the inward standards that I apply when I choose to hold people accountable for their behavior. I certainly expect far more from adults than from teens; more from teens than from young children; more from young children than from babies. More from experienced adults than from rookies; more from community elders than from the middle-aged. I have a structured set of expectations that I apply based on my assessment of what the other person should know or understand. I believe that mature people should exercise good judgment, should foresee problems and act to forestall them, should plan ahead, should practice good time management, should be unselfish, should be practical, should be wise.
It will not surprise the thoughtful reader when I write that I am frequently frustrated, stressed, and disappointed.
I can remember being angry when a well-paid person did not perform at a high level. I can remember scorning someone with an advanced degree who did not exhibit excellent judgment. I can remember many moments when I compared what the universe was delivering to me with the concept that I was seeking to impose on the universe. No matter how I would rage, of course, the universe never changed what was on offer. Instead, I would hurt someone's feelings or isolate myself in order to preserve my opinion. Either way, I never won. The universe won every time. And the universe has gone on delivering whatever it darn well pleases without much regard for my opinions.
But don't we have to have standards? How can you supervise workers without expecting things from people? How can you prepare children for life if you let them do whatever they want all the time? What about aesthetics? What about productivity? What about justice?
I have recently felt a mild irritation each time I hear the catch phrase currently much in use as a slang way of saying "No worries," (I think): "It's all good." The mild irritation seems to arise from my suspicion that I don't really get the meaning of the phrase. It is a phrase used by people much younger than I. I suspect that they don't really understand what's going on, or they would never say or believe that it's all good. These might be people who don't think things through, or take precautions, or save for a rainy day. "It's all good," you say? You don't know the half of it.
But, this afternoon, I can say with the youngest of them, "It's all good." I am not going to get to the end of my to-do list. I am not going to accomplish most of the goals I set this morning. I certainly didn't set the goal of ending my day in a state of peaceful reflection, facing some of my shortcomings and telling you about them in a friendly and frank recital. Who knew that letting the universe win would feel so good?
Thank you, interrupters. You interrupted a sterile concept in mid-flight and replaced it with the nourishment of reality. On the side of the angels? You bet, if the angels are the messengers of the universe. It's all good.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Feed the Birds
Early one recent evening I sat in my living room for about 20 minutes looking out at the birds visiting my backyard birdfeeders. I don't usually give myself this luxury. I don't know why not--there are not many activities that can compete with the benefits of this combination of bird-watching, meditation, contemplation, rest, and refreshment. My beautiful, tri-part, soaring east window gives onto a layered suburban woodland landscape for which I can take no credit. All the patient work in the service of a vision of backyard tranquillity must be credited to the house's previous owners.
The landscape's senior birdfeeder, which I inherited with the house, is a sturdy box with two plexiglass walls, two faux log cabin walls and a hinged peaked faded green wooden roof that opens to receive fresh dispensations of birdseed. It has always had plenty of traffic. The two birdfeeders which I purchased and installed in June (a copper-trimmed two-story model and a modern-looking rectangle with a flat roof, flanked by wire holders for suet cakes) sat for weeks without doing any business. Every time I would glance outside, the level of seed in the new birdfeeders stood as high as it had been the day before. My limited knowledge of birds and birdfeeding did not extend to an explanation of the birds' lack of interest in the new birdfeeders, other than to hypothesize that the sunflower seeds in the mix were too big to get through the holes that supplied the feeding ledges. I added some thistle seed, but it could not filter down past the larger seed. A few days back, I had determined to redistribute the seed and place nothing but thistle seed in the new feeders.
Then on this evening, the heavens opened and delivered an unending stream of birds to all three birdfeeders. The ones I can identify don't go far beyond the male and female cardinal. I suppose there were various finches, because they were small. Wrens? Nuthatches? There were yellow-and-black ones and one with a russet thatch; one with a rusty breast (too small to be a robin) and a few small brownish ones with black trim neatly piped along the edges of each wing. I realized as I sat watching that my next purchase must be a bird identification manual.
The daytime birds, including the cacophonous crows, the bluejay who is always alone, and the surprisingly aggressive doves (those in my yard, at least, not at all peaceful in their birdly relations), were elsewhere. Even the mother and child bunnies that often hop by were not to be seen. A brown squirrel and a black squirrel, thwarted by squirrel baffles from reaching the feeders, nibbled on the seed that fell to the ground.
The little birds' wings whirred so rapidly as they spun through the landscape that to my vision the wings blurred. I didn't know that the wings of birds other than hummingbirds did that. Growing up in South Texas, land of road runners that skitter among the chapparral, sparrow hawks, pelicans at the beach, and bob-whites with their distinctive call, as a child I did not know many songbirds. I knew not at all in life, but only in death, the delicate doves and quail that my father shot during bird season, and that we would eat freshly dressed, cleaned, and roasted, with nothing but toast, after getting home from whatever ranch he had hunted on, at 9 or 10 pm on a hot Texas night. Those birds lived in the cover of gray-green mesquite trees on the dry ranches that stretched southward toward Mexico. As a girl, I did not sit and look out at my backyard anyway; and if I had, I would not have seen many birds among the rosebushes my mother so laboriously coaxed from the baked ground.
Today, I cannot wait to buy more birdseed to keep the songbirds coming. Their grace and beauty alone would be enough to compensate me for the cost of birdseed (not the least of which cost is the labor involved in lugging the big economy size home). But it is their naturalness that endlessly fascinates. Is it anthropomorphizing to describe them as spontaneous? I think perhaps it is, so I will stick with natural. Nature is natural -- big whoop. But I love it. The rhythm of the birds' movements, the quicksilver turns, the assessment of danger on the wing, the un-self-consciousness of it all -- is like standing under a waterfall of purity. The birds are made light by their apparent freedom from every calculation except the calculation that finding food means staying alive.
I'm not a birdwatcher; but I love to watch the birds.
The landscape's senior birdfeeder, which I inherited with the house, is a sturdy box with two plexiglass walls, two faux log cabin walls and a hinged peaked faded green wooden roof that opens to receive fresh dispensations of birdseed. It has always had plenty of traffic. The two birdfeeders which I purchased and installed in June (a copper-trimmed two-story model and a modern-looking rectangle with a flat roof, flanked by wire holders for suet cakes) sat for weeks without doing any business. Every time I would glance outside, the level of seed in the new birdfeeders stood as high as it had been the day before. My limited knowledge of birds and birdfeeding did not extend to an explanation of the birds' lack of interest in the new birdfeeders, other than to hypothesize that the sunflower seeds in the mix were too big to get through the holes that supplied the feeding ledges. I added some thistle seed, but it could not filter down past the larger seed. A few days back, I had determined to redistribute the seed and place nothing but thistle seed in the new feeders.
Then on this evening, the heavens opened and delivered an unending stream of birds to all three birdfeeders. The ones I can identify don't go far beyond the male and female cardinal. I suppose there were various finches, because they were small. Wrens? Nuthatches? There were yellow-and-black ones and one with a russet thatch; one with a rusty breast (too small to be a robin) and a few small brownish ones with black trim neatly piped along the edges of each wing. I realized as I sat watching that my next purchase must be a bird identification manual.
The daytime birds, including the cacophonous crows, the bluejay who is always alone, and the surprisingly aggressive doves (those in my yard, at least, not at all peaceful in their birdly relations), were elsewhere. Even the mother and child bunnies that often hop by were not to be seen. A brown squirrel and a black squirrel, thwarted by squirrel baffles from reaching the feeders, nibbled on the seed that fell to the ground.
The little birds' wings whirred so rapidly as they spun through the landscape that to my vision the wings blurred. I didn't know that the wings of birds other than hummingbirds did that. Growing up in South Texas, land of road runners that skitter among the chapparral, sparrow hawks, pelicans at the beach, and bob-whites with their distinctive call, as a child I did not know many songbirds. I knew not at all in life, but only in death, the delicate doves and quail that my father shot during bird season, and that we would eat freshly dressed, cleaned, and roasted, with nothing but toast, after getting home from whatever ranch he had hunted on, at 9 or 10 pm on a hot Texas night. Those birds lived in the cover of gray-green mesquite trees on the dry ranches that stretched southward toward Mexico. As a girl, I did not sit and look out at my backyard anyway; and if I had, I would not have seen many birds among the rosebushes my mother so laboriously coaxed from the baked ground.
Today, I cannot wait to buy more birdseed to keep the songbirds coming. Their grace and beauty alone would be enough to compensate me for the cost of birdseed (not the least of which cost is the labor involved in lugging the big economy size home). But it is their naturalness that endlessly fascinates. Is it anthropomorphizing to describe them as spontaneous? I think perhaps it is, so I will stick with natural. Nature is natural -- big whoop. But I love it. The rhythm of the birds' movements, the quicksilver turns, the assessment of danger on the wing, the un-self-consciousness of it all -- is like standing under a waterfall of purity. The birds are made light by their apparent freedom from every calculation except the calculation that finding food means staying alive.
I'm not a birdwatcher; but I love to watch the birds.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Zoe's Independence Day
My granddaughter was born on July 3, 2003. Today is her 5th birthday. Late in my daughter's term, the baby was presenting breech (feet down instead of head down). This makes for a difficult labor for mother and baby, so we were all hoping that the baby would "turn," or rotate so her head would be down. Two weeks before the due date, the baby turned! Sighs of relief all around.
Then, during the last week of the pregnancy, the baby turned again, resuming the breech position. The baby, despite all our wishes, prayers, and crossed fingers, refused to lower her head. My daughter and her husband and her obstetrician agreed that she would submit to a Caesarean birth, since the breech position could lead to complications. The birth took place as planned. The baby was fine. My daughter had a normal recovery (rather slow and painful). Five years later, none of us talks much about the Caesarean birth.
During those last two weeks of pregnancy, my thoughts were with my daughter and the new baby constantly. I devoutly wished for the baby to turn, because I hoped for the easiest and smoothest experience for both of them. When it became clear that the baby, although willing to try out the head-down position, really preferred to enter this world feet first, I began to reflect on her point of view.
What does it mean for a person to refuse to lower her head? Is it any different for a baby to take this position than for an adult to do so? The transition from life in the womb to life on earth is so profound that New Orleans residents who hold jazz funerals, joyfully marching with brass bands to accompany coffins to the cemetery, tell us that they cry when a baby is born and rejoice when that person passes on. Now that I am coming to know my granddaughter, I can confirm the intuition I had before her birth, that, for her, choosing to make this transition on her feet signaled a readiness to engage, a zest for life, a challenging stance, a sly form of humor. But mostly it represented other qualities -- her dignity, majesty, and, dare I say it, power.
Zoe is independent. While she is certainly capable of being a team player, willing to take her turn, usually cheerful when asked to compromise, she is very clear about her preferences, desires, and visions. She is able to express them verbally and will back them up with action if necessary. When she was very small, family members would take her to the local fireworks display every year. Sometimes, depending on the calendar, the fireworks were actually set off on July 3rd. We would tell her, playfully and indulgently, that the show was just for her birthday. This was not true, of course. But in a way, it was true. Every banquet that life sets on the table is for the ones who receive it as their own.
The innocence of this 5-year-old child sometimes pierces my heart with its purity. I know that through the experience of life on earth she will lose this innocence over time. I wish for her that, throughout her lifetime, her independence will restore to her some measure of innocence, perhaps the innocence that very old, gentle, and wise people sometimes have. Being independent means that you can choose not to be disappointed or thwarted in life. You can choose to be stubborn sometimes, when conditions threaten to compel your surrender. There is a time for surrender, too; and that time may call on the quality of independence (if other people are advising you to resist) just as much as the other. This inner-directed independence has something to do with authenticity, the ability to be oneself. Zoe has this abillity in spades.
It is wonderful to see a living manifestation of independence, not just an abstraction or a concept. It is wonderful to reflect on the possibilities that a community full of independent people (meaning people who are expressing their uniqueness) might achieve. Somehow, Zoe's life reminds me of the windmills I wrote about recently. By their movement, they enable us to see the wind. By her manner, Zoe enables me to see what independence looks like.
Happy Independence Day!
Then, during the last week of the pregnancy, the baby turned again, resuming the breech position. The baby, despite all our wishes, prayers, and crossed fingers, refused to lower her head. My daughter and her husband and her obstetrician agreed that she would submit to a Caesarean birth, since the breech position could lead to complications. The birth took place as planned. The baby was fine. My daughter had a normal recovery (rather slow and painful). Five years later, none of us talks much about the Caesarean birth.
During those last two weeks of pregnancy, my thoughts were with my daughter and the new baby constantly. I devoutly wished for the baby to turn, because I hoped for the easiest and smoothest experience for both of them. When it became clear that the baby, although willing to try out the head-down position, really preferred to enter this world feet first, I began to reflect on her point of view.
What does it mean for a person to refuse to lower her head? Is it any different for a baby to take this position than for an adult to do so? The transition from life in the womb to life on earth is so profound that New Orleans residents who hold jazz funerals, joyfully marching with brass bands to accompany coffins to the cemetery, tell us that they cry when a baby is born and rejoice when that person passes on. Now that I am coming to know my granddaughter, I can confirm the intuition I had before her birth, that, for her, choosing to make this transition on her feet signaled a readiness to engage, a zest for life, a challenging stance, a sly form of humor. But mostly it represented other qualities -- her dignity, majesty, and, dare I say it, power.
Zoe is independent. While she is certainly capable of being a team player, willing to take her turn, usually cheerful when asked to compromise, she is very clear about her preferences, desires, and visions. She is able to express them verbally and will back them up with action if necessary. When she was very small, family members would take her to the local fireworks display every year. Sometimes, depending on the calendar, the fireworks were actually set off on July 3rd. We would tell her, playfully and indulgently, that the show was just for her birthday. This was not true, of course. But in a way, it was true. Every banquet that life sets on the table is for the ones who receive it as their own.
The innocence of this 5-year-old child sometimes pierces my heart with its purity. I know that through the experience of life on earth she will lose this innocence over time. I wish for her that, throughout her lifetime, her independence will restore to her some measure of innocence, perhaps the innocence that very old, gentle, and wise people sometimes have. Being independent means that you can choose not to be disappointed or thwarted in life. You can choose to be stubborn sometimes, when conditions threaten to compel your surrender. There is a time for surrender, too; and that time may call on the quality of independence (if other people are advising you to resist) just as much as the other. This inner-directed independence has something to do with authenticity, the ability to be oneself. Zoe has this abillity in spades.
It is wonderful to see a living manifestation of independence, not just an abstraction or a concept. It is wonderful to reflect on the possibilities that a community full of independent people (meaning people who are expressing their uniqueness) might achieve. Somehow, Zoe's life reminds me of the windmills I wrote about recently. By their movement, they enable us to see the wind. By her manner, Zoe enables me to see what independence looks like.
Happy Independence Day!
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