“…the errands born from the gap between what we can imagine and what we can in fact create.”
M. Cunningham The Room at the End of the World
It’s been a hard November. On the days when you can see it, the sun sets behind the mountains at four in the afternoon. I have a sense of unease and trudging futility in creating this blog. Who is it for? What does it mean? Do I or anyone else care?
I’m thinking about the gap between what I can imagine and what I can create. That’s the challenge as you learn a new craft. You become cruelly aware of what you don’t know. My writing, formerly intuitive and pleasurable is now under crippling scrutiny. Yet, like a toddler, teetering on a tile floor, I’ll stumble into this piece.
And it is foolish to ignore the effects of COVID on our creative efforts. We are all constrained by the restrictions and uncertainties of this more ominous second wave of infection. And at home, the weight of each repetitive routine rounds my shoulders. I’m reduced to counting.
I count the number of days and months it has been since I hugged certain loved ones and the number of grandchildren’s birthdays I have missed. (Three–A fairy tale number)
I count the new cases, hospitalizations and ICU admissions here on Vancouver Island and they are increasing. I count the number of vaccines in Phase III trials. (Thirteen) and feel the optimism as others are approved. I count the opinions on how the available vaccines should be distributed.
I count the soiled paper masks strewn about the car and crumpled into the pockets of my coats. I count the mask-wearing shoppers in the grocery store line-ups and the wavering spaces among us. I count the times I have been to a restaurant since March. (less than two hands worth) which leads me to count the times I have made yet another uninspired meal.
I count the deaths of people known to me or any of my friends (so far Zero) and I wonder when and for who this number will change? How close will this death be? Will we all know someone who has died?
I count the hours I spend doom scrolling, flicking through the news on my phone and wonder what it’s doing to my brain. I skim short stories without concentration. When I go out for walks. A nice lady reads Jane Eyre to me from my phone and somehow that is soothing. Listening to The Stand, by Stephen King was not.
Using Facetime, I read stories to my grandkids who are 13,000 km away. I count the minutes left in my Zoom meeting with my writing group as my brain begins to wander and I cannot control it. And in my Zoom music lesson, I count the couplets and triplets (Piz-za and Blue-ber-ry) and feel the rhythms relieve my tension.
I count the persons-with-positive-COVID tests flying into Comox from Calgary. Oh, the sorrow in Alberta! I count the times I have thought about various tests and their accuracy and how they might make our lives safer. (and I have to re-read it each time) Incredulously, I count the advertisements in my in-box of cruise lines offering discounts. Can you imagine that, going on a cruise? I’m counting on the members of my community to be as careful as I am.
I count the times when I have been less-than-accountable. Was that trip to the store necessary? I count the eggs and the amount of milk left in the fridge. (lots of both)
I count my blessings that the pool is still open and I can count my laps. I count the empty wine bottles waiting patiently to be taken to the recycling centre.
I’m counting my fears. I can’t understand what 64 million global infections mean. What is not counted? What will our new world be like? What are the global errands that need to be done to close the gap between what we can imagine and what we can create?
I’m counting the whirring hummingbirds at the feeder. (Two) I’m counting those long-necked trumpeter swans sitting in the cornfield today. (Two) I’m counting the scree-screeing eagles perched in the tallest hemlock overlooking the creek. (Two) I’m watching the full-moon high tides that are co-operating with the crashing swells and high winds to re-arrange the shoreline. The natural world is carrying on with its rhythms.
I am not counting the days to Christmas or to 2021 but I am counting the days to December 21st when the days will start to get longer again.(Eighteen)
I’m counting the number of revisions I have made on my recent short story (lots) and am thinking about that gap between what I can imagine and what I can create. I could try to measure the gap. But how? With what instrument and in what units? Would knowing that number make it an any easier or more pleasurable journey to learn how to narrow that gap? Instead, I think about those newly-born errands, those incremental skills that I need to practice to close that gap.
Please stay safe during this challenging time. Keep imagining and keep creating. Thank you for reading with me.