Escape These Confining Walls
By Maile Silva
Photo by David Clode via Unsplash
Today The Lauffice is miles away, back at home filled with the detritus of a long weekend where no laundry was done and every homeless item in our house found shelter on its floor. When the Lauffice is in such a state, it isn’t conducive to writing.
I have to be out today anyhow, running kids hither and fro on their last day of school, so I’ve found my writing space in a corner of the county that’s new to me. It’s a park I’ve passed each week when I run our daughter from her kindergarten class to her playdate with her cousins. It’s not the prettiest representation of an otherwise picturesque part of Pennsylvania, but today, it will do.
At a weathered picnic table covered with smatterings of bird poop and the confetti crumbs of someone’s birthday cake, I am writing this. In the sky behind me, ominous clouds hover, and I may have to retreat to the safety of our van if the winds continue to pick up and the rains decide to give way. But for now, I’ll enjoy the warm breeze and the distant rumble of a tractor. I’ll enjoy the view of a golden retriever hopping into the front seat of his elderly owner’s gray Prius after their leisurely walk down a stony path that weaves between the trees. Settled beside the balding man, looking out the passenger window, the dog looks as comfortable and content as the man’s spouse might have. Yes, indeed--the dog is smiling.
Sometimes, writing in nature is the exact balm our creative souls are craving, especially when the four walls of our offices or houses feel stale and stacked with lists of things that need to be done: scrubbing the mildew in the bathroom sink, sorting the bills on the counter, vacuuming the thin layer of dog hair that’s coating the living room carpet. And not much changes inside either, am I right? The pictures are in the same place, the books on the same shelves, usually the same people walking in and out of the rooms. And if you are anything like me, the things that do change—like the sudden mound of shoes appearing at the front door or dirty dishes left on the kitchen table—put you in a bad mood and send you off on inner monologues about how you aren’t appreciated and if you ever threw in the towel and stopped picking up after everyone, the whole thing would come falling down around them. Which we all know it wouldn’t. The house would still stand. It would be dirty and probably attract cockroaches, but the walls would hold.
That’s when stepping outside and entering the marvel of nature does wonders for our creative minds. Because the changes we see and hear aren’t frustrating. They’re welcoming. They remind us that stories exist in the most primitive spaces. The flittering of a butterfly between a row of bushes might invite the question of where else she’s flittered today; what has she seen with her 17,000 mini eyes? Did she slip barely unscathed through the path of a dodgeball on a school playground or rest on the shoulder of a man standing by a grave or fly past the window of a couple making love? There are stories here.
And there are sensations we need to feel. The confining walls of our indoor spaces are replaced with unmown expanses punctuated with trees that stretch to the heavens, beckoning us to climb to the highest branches, jump into the blue invitation of the sky above, and soar. No voices telling us it can’t be done. No strings tethering us to the ground. Because we’re doing it, we are flying higher and higher as each word bursts from our unchained imaginations and the atmosphere is filled with our stories.
Listen, friends.
Are the birds tweeting a “come hither” call to you? Are the trees waving their woody arms, urging you to join them, to open the door and step out into the invigorating breeze and the twirling dance of creativity that’s been performing since the first Divine breath exhaled this all into existence?
Come, friends. Join in.