Too Happy to be Creative?

My creative juices have gone stagnant, thick with algae, green flies swarming over the surface. I’m not sure how they got this way, only know they aren’t moving me in, urging me to write. I don’t wake with poems churning in my head. Could it be I’m too happy? Is that a real thing, too happy? Over the last 15 years, I’ve experienced some life changing and devastating life experiences, and through them all, I’ve gotten up every morning eager to write them down. I’ve raged at God, questioned my sanity, wondered if I would ever survive. But now, life is settled and stable as I face the upcoming tenth anniversary of Clint’s death. I survived the fourth anniversary of Parrish’s death at the hands of an incompetent staff at Gateway. I have almost forgotten the times I was so depressed I got lost on my way to the hair salon I frequented for years, the times I go lost trying to find the barber shop so Clint could get a haircut, the times my short term memory was so completely absent I couldn’t construct an coherent sentence. I am surrounded by natural beauty and fast friends and family who love and cherish me. I even have a social life of sorts, meeting with life-long friends for cocktails almost every Friday. I go to Sunday School but not church.

The beach beacons in the spring weather, and I often take my dogs there so we can all get some ocean air and exercise. Yes, we have another dog now, an All American Dachshund-Terrier mix adopted from a shelter near Atlanta. He’s as laid back as Della is wound up, so they are good for one another. I even have a little bit of a tan. We have experienced extremes in the tide and some days the water is sucked out so far to sea, it looks as though the beach goes on forever. Other days, the sheets of water, bearded with foam, lap against the dunes. 

I’ve been stitching a needlepoint pillow and watching French Open tennis on TV, caring for my orchids, all five of which are in bloom, decorating my house with their exquisite beauty. The birds are well fed, their water station filled and ready in case they get thirsty, and I have moon flowers planted in the back yard. I’m not that crazy about the marsh rat that comes to my bird feeder every afternoon at dusk, prompting me to take it down every evening, but, hey, he was to eat too. I take a certain surprising joy in keeping house and yard. But I haven’t felt compelled to sit down and write about it. Do I need to be in crisis to be stirred to record my feelings? 

Fonda, my dear and precious friend, is here with us for a few days. Word nerds both, we have filled our time with crossword puzzles and other word games. And there is all the talking and catching up and just loving being in one another’s presence. She brought two containers of her famous pimiento cheese, and we have been feasting on that. Crab Man caught us a small mess of crabs, and we picked them out and I made us a pot of crab and sweet corn soup. I steamed some fresh shrimp Crab Man caught off the pier in his cast net. Life is certainly good. 

I am filled with gratitude. I get to live here on my beautiful Saint Simons Island, where the Live Oak trees offer shade that keeps us a little cooler than the mainland, where boas of Spanish moss sway from their branches as though conducting a secret Island orchestra heard only by those of us who are attuned to it. Sunlight filters its way though the branches in glorious streaks. It’s easy to see why people come from all over the world to catch a little handful of the magic we enjoy year round. Yes, it’s almost summer, and it’s hot, but that’s just the trade-off we have to make for getting to live here.

There is no crisis. There is no angst. I have learned forgiveness and acceptance. It seems impossible my life has ever been wracked with loss and anger and mental imbalance. My Xanax bottle sits untouched in the bathroom cabinet, and I am flanked by Della and Hank, my precious dogs, who bring me such joy, yes joy, a sense of steadfast contentment and belonging. Gretchen is a good roommate, and I am grateful to have her with me.

Maybe all this happiness will stir those creative juices, act a little like chlorine and clear them up. In the meantime, I’ll just keep on feeling content and fulfilled.