Boring Rainbow

In the wilds of near-Canada, the world opened up to wonder upon wonder, both in a rainforest forgotten by civilization and left to its own strength, and to the beach where hands dunked themselves in creativity and time, taking up the gnarled and tangled sea branches and placing them into the ordered chaos that reached high to the overcast heavens. And by this I mean small, sacred spaces reminiscent of tiny cathedrals and boy scouts, built by some curious sea goers showcasing to all and few what you can build with your creative elements of being. What YOU can create if you simply let your hands and time work together. 

This is something I rarely do, though I tell myself I’m a writer and an artist. 

What I’m really good at, though, is not allowing myself the time to create. I’m good at saying no. At shutting down my heart. Nailing it closed. Only letting it wistfully dream. 

We’re all good at denying ourselves, I think. 

Or maybe it has to do with parentage. Maybe if your parents handed you a flashlight and said “Go and wonder and be and do!” then you are one of the lucky few who listen to those whispers of the angels who say “grow, grow!” (Rumi). My parents were wonderful, really. So many it isn’t parentage. Look at the table and chair, at the vase and the flower. Look at the beauty and attention to detail.

I was in shock and wonder and delight as I walked this wintery beach, the wind a constant companion, and the sands still dotted with fun shells to find and bits of rare sea glass. And I got to wander in and out of this strange beach village that dotted the entirety of the sands. Who made these? Who spent days and days building sea forts for me? 

For each of us, but as we each explore, that tiny bit of reality is just for us, just our personal, tiny moment. 

Look at the flag. Look at the door. Look how they tucked a “book,” into a shelf. And as you entered, the wind stopped, making it feel as if you’d wandered into a sacred space. And by the look of it, you had. They wove tiny bowls. They put in treasures. They built a table and adorned it with seaflowers. They made this space for you. 

About an hour after wandering and taking photos, someone came and pushed it all down. Almost every single structure was toppled. These photos, taken just before the reaper came to take them away, are all that are left. 

And was it the same person who kicked in the epic sand castle we’d made, and drew hate symbols in the sand? 

I don’t know. But what I do know is that human creativity, power, and beauty are all that’s important. They are the wonder and the joy of life, after love. Love, I guess, is the most important. And then creativity, and communing in the work of God. 

Someday I’ll let myself work more.

Caroline Myss, spiritual teacher, says that when you imbue your life with your talents, your God-given gifts , the things that bring you joy, you energetically lift all boats. You’re a part of this human consciousness; you’re a part of the rhizomes of humanity. Of the tuck tuck, of the being. You’re the melting pot. And when you say, “today I will make something beautiful,” you, somehow, bring relief to the suffering of the world. 

Is this true? 

Does it have to be?