Creativity

I've always been labeled "creative."

It's a fascinating label, considering that the analytical, logical parts of my mind are a much more obvious part of my persona. I notice tiny details. I solve problems. I take things apart and put them back together. I look for the source. 

Even so, compliments I receive from family and friends return again and again to creativity. Sometimes I wonder who they're actually talking about, but secretly I love it.

Sometimes I outwardly embrace the label. Having a "creative" personality is an excellent excuse for running a few minutes late, or for accidentally putting on mismatched socks in the morning. "Oh, yeah," I'll say, glancing nonchalantly at the flashback-inducing contrast of one purple plaid ankle, crossed neatly over an orange paisley ankle. "I'm feeling inspired today." I like to think I can work it.

Sometimes, creativity is essential. At more difficult times in my life, I've sometimes had to create something from nothing. I remember one Christmas, a few years ago, when a friend gave me a box of her daughter's old toys. That year, I spent a night in my garage, painstakingly inspecting story books, looking for the ones that were most perfect. Those with the fewest folded corners; those with the fewest fingerprints on the cover; those that could pass for new--those were gifts from Santa that year. I wrapped them in homemade wrapping paper, and tied them in ribbons I'd cut from an old pillowcase.  I cried that year at my fireplace, feeling like I'd failed my girls. But my children were young then, and their delight was palpable. I like to think that if they'd been older, I'd have found a way to rise to the occasion. I learned that year that no matter what, there would be a way to make Christmas for them.

Later, in a more prosperous season, I would find myself making big, puffy bows out of pine-colored dog-poop bags with Waffle Guy's youngest daughter. There wasn't any necessity. We were only doing it to prove that we could create something beautiful from a humble poo bag. But as I watched that Youthful Waffler accent her beautifully wrapped gifts with her fluffy, homemade bows, I recalled harder years, and I was grateful that creativity had become a luxury.

This year, we took a Thanksgiving ski trip with most of the Waffle Clan. The Eldest brought with her the Adopted Waffler, a native Texan who'd never experienced the sting of Lake Superior wind in November. To celebrate, and to keep warm, the girls had packed an arsenal of Heinous Sweaters, and we expanded the collection at the Duluth Ragstock so that every member of our posse could sport one for a day. When my brother, a North Shore resident, met us for lunch, the Young Wafflers even presented him with a Christmas Panda shirt. He wore it like a champ, and we all spent much of the meal giggling at one another affectionately. I found delight in the fact that on a whim, these two young women could so masterfully craft for us all such a beautiful memory from such an ugly source.

Nothing, it would seem, is wasted. 

And isn't that the very definition of creativity? To take something hideous, or to take nothing at all, and to turn it into something beautiful. When I see it in other people, I regard this sort of creativity as genius.

For some reason, I feel almost desperate this year to make the world just a little better. I'm an idealist, and I get this way from time to time. When I was a kid, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, I could cure AIDS and end war. It was either noble or a delusion of grandeur. I'm not quite so naive, now, but I still believe that one person can make a tiny difference. And I believe a lot of people can make a lot of difference. It just takes some creativity.

When I mentioned in this blog last week that I wanted some help adopting an additional family, I got so much response that we were actually able to provide gifts for several more families. For a day or two, I realized that I couldn't want any more than to call people like you my friends. Maybe it's guilt for a time when secondhand books were the best I could muster that makes me feel so compelled to fix things. Maybe it's some deep-rooted need to prove to myself that I am a good person. But I'd like to think that creativity has something to do with it.

Waffle Guy and I have come up with a creative way to feed a few people who might otherwise do without. In the spirit of creating beauty from ugliness, it involves your most heinous and gaudy holiday attire. It also involves filling our truck with your donated non-perishables, and snacks for you. Email me if you want to know more-- wafflequest2009 (at) gmail (dot) com.

I do always brag about my amazing, creative friends. Let's make something pretty, huh?

Wish List, Item 3: Stuff That Helps Me Cope With Snow

I'm presently hanging out at 36,000 feet or so, Portland bound.

Behind and below me, Minnesota is in the throes of the third Snowmageddon event of the year.

Each one has created a different sort of adventure for me. The first Great Big Snowstorm this year came unseasonably early, prompting a white-knuckled, low-speed trip to Hell Target, where I encountered every other parent who had not yet purchased boots for his or her child. We got the last pair of size 6 boots in any style or color and the last cute yellow hat. My children, who as children occasionally lack things like "common sense" and "nerves," paid me back for my valiant efforts by requesting that I take them sledding four times in two days. I'm working on regenerating the toes I lost that weekend. I'll keep you posted on progress.

The Epic Day-Before-Thanksgiving Travel-Stopping Blizzard-To-End-All-Blizzards of 2010 was a massive disappointment at my home. That's okay, because I wasn't at home. I was settling in for a ski trip with my kids on the North Shore of Lake Superior. We'd heard reports of an impending super-doomy storm, due to arrive at 4 o'clock on Wednesday. At 7 o'clock, nothing was on the radar. We decided to get dinner at the infamous Sven and Ole's, where we sat in a room that's looked exactly the same since 1970 and ate food that was possibly made in 1970. A few flakes were falling when we loaded into the car to drive the 22 miles back to Lutsen.

By the time we got out of the tiny town of Grand Marais and safely onto curvy lake-side cliffs, there was enough snow to make me nervously hum The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I'm quite certain that it was my silent prayers, coupled with the gales-of-November jokes and abundant backseat driving, that kept Gitche Gumee from swallowing us whole that night. I was repaid for my heroics with a long weekend spent skiing with my children, which was difficult, as I'd lost all my toes sledding the weekend before.

Tonight's storm, however, was somewhat kinder. You see, it hit at the precise moment we left for the airport, which might sound like a bummer to you. It's not. We boarded on time, and only took off an hour and 20 minutes late, and in between, I got to watch them de-ice our plane. Dude. That machine is my new favorite thing on Earth. It looks like a robot-alien, all hard at work to make the all the little planes fly safely! So cute...

So, if you happen to be or to know Santa Claus, you might want to pass along that I'd really like a de-icing truck for Christmas*. If I've got to live on the tundra with no toes, it's only natural to want to spray large machines with green goo, isn't it?


*I would be totally content just to ride along in one, if Santa is too busy making Hex Bugs to build me my own de-icing rig in time for Christmas. Riding along in a Sno-Cat on the side of a ski hill would be an acceptable substitute, in a pinch.

**In the event that none of the above fantasies are possible, I would be content to receive a one-way ticket to Maui. Thanks, Santa.

Love, Defined.

Atop my fiance's shoulders, the littlest Waffler explored Amsterdam from a vantage point high above the city. But it was a long day, and travelling had worn her out, and soon enough, she fell asleep. 

On his head.

Hilarious though it was, I worried that 43 pounds of limp, floppy kid might cause Waffle Guy epic chiropractic consequences. "I can carry her, if you want," I offered. "I'll help you get her down."

"It's no problem," he explained. "This way, we're moving forward, and she's getting some rest. That's about as good as it gets, isn't it?"

Maybe. But it still seemed like it might hurt, eventually. "You're going to get tired!" I insisted.

"Or I'll get stronger shoulders," he said. 

And in that moment, love made perfect sense. 

At once intricate and simple, the truth was there, as clear as water: To find it in one's self, day after day, to carry the ones who matter, and to find strength in that, is the gift of love.

Tomorrow, Bruges.

Moving Right Along

Most of the time, life strolls along at a predictable pace. You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to bed. Rinse, and repeat. There. I've summarized most of life, in two easy-to-read sentences.

Sometimes, though, for whatever reason, life propels itself into some kind of bizarre hyper-speed.

Waffle Guy and I went to New York this weekend to visit his Eldest, and it was a head-spinning whirlwind of a wonderful weekend. For all the amazing travel adventures the Guy has had, this was only his second time in the city--and the first time, he only stayed for 18 hours. I felt obligated to provide him with the comprehensive New York City tourist experience in a single weekend.

In less than two full days, we went to dinner with the Eldest and her BFF, walked around the Upper West Side, went to the Empire State Building in the middle of the night, explored Chelsea on foot, visited Ellis Island, bought a light meter at the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market, saw +/- 0.3% of the Met, ate at a darling little Basque joint, had brunch at an old friend's place (To be clear, he's not old. Our friendship is.), and came home. I'm so tired that every word I type looks misspelled to me.

And yet, I want more.

I wish that we had the energy to wake up every single day and sustain that level of enthusiasm and adventure, and to make the most of every minute, and to remember to appreciate the people we meet along the way.

I hope that, when it's our time to go to the Great Nuthouse in the Sky, we will leave behind a list of full-throttle adventures like this one. I hope that people will understand that this is why we go to crazy places and do crazy things and obsess about making crazy-good waffles.

Life passes by awfully fast, you see, and I can't think of anything that matters more than whirlwind weekends and the memories that they create.

Lessons from a Tourist's Photos: It takes awhile, sometimes.

First, my Letter Writing Campaign fell miserably flat. This is primarily because I had a massive two-week bout of writer's block, but also partly because it was a dumb idea. This is what happens when one drinks too much coffee and stays up until four o'clock.

Second, I'm learning to make peace with the obstacles. Sometimes there are obvious reasons you can't move forward, and sometimes it's a mystery. But we're all stuck, sometimes. And when it happens, there's no point in wishing you were somewhere else. You've just got to listen to the music of honking horns, and notice the lights and the colors and the patterns around you, and stay behind the wheel, and wait.

After all, we all arrive at the same place eventually. It's what we see along the way that matters.

Buenos Aires, May 2010

Lessons From A Tourist's Photos: Erosion

image_3, originally uploaded by katherine.kunkel.

I saw the tiny canyon in the sand, carved of a tidal stream and surrounded by miniature cliffs, a perfect scale-model representation of the forces to which we all fall victim in our own time.

We are shaped by waters, blown by winds; leveled and smoothed and carved and designed until we reach our final form; intricate and weathered and true, if only we let those forces move us.

(Zeeland, The Netherlands, Spring 2009)

Lessons from a Tourist's Photos: Just Cross The Flippin' Bridge Already

Every now and again, I feel like I suffer from Late-Onset Adulthood. You know those days when you were learning your lessons and sewing your oats and stuff? I was AWOL then, somehow, locked up in my completely oblivious little mind, and so I never really grew up. Now I'm figuring out the things that the rest of the world learned at fifteen. It's a little bit awkward, although I'm proud to report that I've experienced virtually no acne in this bizarre and belated launch period.

For a very wide variety of reasons, I missed the years when most people are concerned about fashion trends or dating or the antics of the characters in the latest trendy television serial. I was too busy surviving. And then all of a sudden, everything changed. For the first time in my life, I'm beginning to understand what it means to thrive, and it feels amazing.

Except when it doesn't. 

Because sometimes, moving forward feels like a traffic jam. 

For example, four months ago, I quit smoking. Not like I quit smoking last year, or the year before that, or the year before that. This time, I really quit smoking. To prove it, I gained 15 pounds immediately. I'm not as young as I used to be, and the weight is proving to be incredibly hard to take off. I've never been overweight, and truth be told, I'm hardly overweight now. But looking in the mirror is so bloody frustrating that I forget that my new appearance is proof of a healthier me. I curse the hours I now have to spend at the gym, instead of celebrating the newer, healthier lifestyle I'm creating. I forget that just a few short months ago, I was a slave to an addiction that I wasn't sure I'd be strong enough to escape. I beat it, and it was easier than I thought. Victory, right? Except for those pounds. 

And so the cycle continues. I get so caught up in beating myself up about my newest challenge that I forget to look at the challenges as the beautiful, educational, important journeys that they are. I look at the present, and convince myself myself I'm stuck here. I look at the future, and find it a bit frightening.

But I forget to look at the past, and see how far I've progressed. I forget that it doesn't matter how long it took me to get here. The point is, I arrived.

Organization is another weak spot for me, and tonight I found myself once again working much harder to clean my house than I should have had to work. If only I'd emptied the dishwasher when it was finished, I thought, then dirty dishes would never have piled up in the sink and I could have spent that time mopping instead. In a fit of frustration, I finished the dishes and went to bed for some cathartic time spent looking at photos of happy things.

That's when I found the picture of the bridge. This bridge over Germany's Mosul river was so striking to me, in part because it was ominous and cold and threatening against the springtime sky. From down below, it felt like it must be scary to cross it.

And that's the thing about bridges: you just have to cross them, whether they're welcoming and quaint or easy and current or big and cold and frightening. It doesn't matter what the bridge looks like, really. The point is to find out what's on the other side. 

Here's hoping the gym is fun, over there.