Cheryl's crude interpretation of "Waiting or the Interuban"
Back on The Road
I am not sure why it’s taken me almost a year of quasi-lockdown to realize that I don’t need to fly thousands of miles, pay thousands of dollars, embarrass myself in another language, or lose my luggage to feed my creativity and maintain a solid writing practice.
I did all that in the three years it took to get my Master’s Degree. Based on comments from some of literature’s great masters – Hemingway, Thoreau, and Nietzsche to name a few – I sought in my graduate work to prove that daily walking, especially in foriegn settings, leads to elevated creativity and writing productivity as well as the development of a solid, if not daily, writing practice.
There were plenty of holes in my decidedly non-scientific research – a lot of things missing. A control group for example. Not to mention the lack of a sample size bigger than five women over the age of 50.
Still, after many revisions, last Spring my thesis was finally deemed worthy of a degree.
COVID arrived about 10 minutes later.
Suddenly my grad school commencement was relegated to a 30-minute Zoom meeting. And, as borders closed down around the globe, my dream of turning my Master’s into a full-time job leading adventurous-but-blocked writers along the world’s exotic walking paths fell victim to the pandemic. International air travel and a highly contagious new disease do not mix. Certainly not before a vaccine quells the spread.
So, in the months since the arrival of my very expensive degree in its very ordinary university envelope, I’ve been staring restlessly out the window of my tiny Seattle studio barely twiddling my thumbs in the direction of creative writing. The only exception has been the two-hour Zoom writing group I attend each Sunday. Thank the digital gods for that – there’s nothing like a little peer pressure to hold your feet to the creative fire. Still, two hours in front of a screen is a far cry from the breathtaking mountains, quaint villages, and indecipherable accents of inspiration that have smacked my senses abroad.
Actually, I’ve been doing more than twiddling. I’ve also been whining regularly – about my lack of creativity; about the monster that is writer’s block; about the claustrophobia born of living 24/7 in a shoebox. In other words, I’ve enjoyed many an hour wallowing in self-pity – despite having a roof over my head, food on my table, and, well, being ALIVE in the midst of a plague. I’ve been eating a lot too. And maybe drinking too much. Just not a whole heck of a lot of writing.
But this morning something shifted. As I rolled over in bed and began the daily exercise of considering not getting up at all, a thought descended: maybe travel isn’t an act, but rather a state of mind.
The thought was followed by some surprisingly thesis-y questions: Could pairing daily long-distance walks with “travelers mind” be the key to re-elevating my creativity? Could it be the nudge I need to get back to a daily writing practice lost to the pandemic? My 90-page thesis focused on linking walking in foriegn settings to increased creativity (as measured by standard tests and self-report).
What it DID NOT do is rule out the same link between boosted creativity and walking in your own backyard.
When I travel, my whole way of looking at and engaging with my surroundings changes. I feel it in my body – an energy, a curiosity, an attention to detail. Research suggests that when one travels there is a tinge of fear that heightens sensations, keeping travelers in low-level fight or flight. That ready-to-pounce feel makes one uber aware of surroundings, or at the very least turns an ordinary croissant into a buttery oral orgasm one could not even imagine finding in his or her own country.
In other words, traveling puts us at risk – it pulls us away from our norms, often our loved ones, and usually our safeties. And that is a significant part of its magic impact on creative thinking.
At least this is my theory.
So this morning’s musing set me a challenge: can I learn to see my own neighborhood, city, region, country as a foreigner would? Despite speaking the language and recognizing the signs, can I walk around, across, through Washington, Oregon, California – places I can get to simply by walking out the front door of my apartment or hopping into my car – with the wonder and attention of an adventurer? Will doing so lead to appreciable – and maybe even measurable – elevation in my feelings of creativity, return me to daily writing, and even give me the nudge I need to start pitching work to publications again?
It’s a tall order. But if any one of these things happens, I am pretty sure my creative experience of this pandemic will rise from it’s current encampment in hell to at least the level of purgatory.
I gotta do something. It’s been nearly a year.
This afternoon I hitched my dog Posie to her leash and set out on a walk around Lake Union, a path that starts right near my place in Seattle’s Eastlake area. If you’ve never been here, Lake Union hugs up against downtown Seattle before hitting the north end and rippling both west toward Puget Sound and east toward Lake Washington.
It was a five-plus mile walk, during which Posie stopped about every three feet to smell, pee, or tangle with another dog. Or goose. Every time she did this, I decided I would turn 360 degrees and take note of what I saw.
Quite suddenly there is a whole world around this lake that I hadn’t consciously noticed in the months I’ve been walking it. I realized that most often when I stroll here, I’m looking at my feet or trying to avoid getting too close to other walkers as COVID courtesy.
By stopping regularly I noticed a wide variety of buildings, new apartments, old squat eyesores unwilling to sell to The Man, colorful houseboats, kitschy and often humorous COVID support signs, dogs in all sizes and shapes and strollers, and irritated cyclists, grumbling obscenities as walkers migrated into their lane. It felt downright European.
About a third of the way along, I passed by Pasta Freska, a tiny Italian restaurant that I hadn’t paid much attention to before. A few blocks beyond it, I felt a rumble in my stomach so paused, called in a takeout order, then rounded back to collect my box of Linguini con fungi. I sat down illicitly on a private houseboat dock nearby and took my first bite of the best Italian dish I’ve had in a long time – here or in Italy. It was a taste trip through an Italian forest floor covered in mushrooms and cream.
Later, when Posie and I rounded over the Fremont Bridge to turn in the direction of home, I actually stopped and took a good look at one of that neighborhood’s big tourist attractions: the sculpture “Waiting for the Interurban.” Artist Richard Beyer created the piece in the late 1970s in tribute to the light rail line that used to connect downtown Seattle with its neighborhoods. The six stone people huddled together are often decorated for holidays, birthdays, and other celebrations. People dress them, tie balloons to them, hand protest signs around their necks.
But the pandemic, or maybe just weather and years, have worn this crowd down. For the first time in the 35 years I’ve lived in or traveled to Seattle I could relate to them. What I wouldn’t give for the time when we can all stand shoulder to shoulder without masks, waiting for a light rail train or bus or plane.
It was a good reminder that I am not alone. Right now, this desire is universal. People all over the world are waiting for the Interurban.
Until it arrives, they, like me, will have to find ways to keep the spirit of creativity alive right where they stand, in their own homes, on their own streets, in places they can reach in the privacy of their own cars.
Or, like for me today, by the mercy of their own two feet.
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