My creativity seems to go through cycles, not only periods of inspiration and darker periods, but also times when I am more inspired in one way than another. Sometimes I just go with the flow, writing when the words are there, sewing when the spirit moves me, whatever. As long as something was created that day, I was usually all right. Other times of course, I am not as relaxed. I want to create using a specific medium and I want to do it now. By now of course, I actually mean right now.
April’s session of Camp brought me about 75-85% of the way through the novel I was working on and I decided I wanted to get the other 15-25% done in May, giving me June to prepare for the July session of Camp. Easy enough, right? I know, famous last words.
Of course, the words have been stalled. I’m not sure if it’s a story issue, or simply that I have been pressing too hard for too long. The outline for the story is still there, but my inspiration seemed to disappear.
Even without my inspiration, I have been sitting daily, getting at least a few words in. Realistically, 1000+ words a day isn’t even that bad. It’s more of the feel of the writing that has changed. Yes, I am still writing daily, but I don’t seem to be connecting as well as I feel I should be. It’s a petty problem, but it still stalls me out.
I’ve mentioned before one of the ways I push my inspiration higher is through travel. Overtime we go on a trip, preferably for at least 3 days, I come home feeling relaxed, renewed, and ready to write. I think it comes from reconnecting with the world. I am seeing new things, watching people and seeing how they live their lives. It shapes my writing by keeping me in reality. Yes, I am writing fiction, but it needs to feel as though it could be fact.
Unfortunately, this isn’t exactly the type of fix that is possible right now. Instead, I decided to see what I could do to capture that feeling at home. I started with a couple of realities. First, I had to be able to walk to where ever I was going, and second, it had to fit into the time frame I had before Little One would be dropped off by the bus.
My town is small, mostly residential with a median age of about 60, though I think it is slowly getting younger. We have houses, a small grocery shop, a butcher, a new coffee shop (I’ll get to that in another post!), and of course since we are in Europe, a large church.
You may have noticed, when we travel, we go to churches. A lot. The churches out here are different from the ones I saw growing up. These are not modern buildings with benches, pulpits, sound systems, and jacuzzis they claim are only for baptisms. These old churches are works of art, works of art that usually hide even more works of art. It’s beautiful.
I’ve never been inside this church, inspire of living in its shadow for two and a half years. (And I do mean in its shadow, I can see it from my backyard.) I took a visit today, but I still haven’t been inside. Firstly, because I am still deeply uncomfortable visiting churches without dressing up. I may have moved away from the religion I grew up with, but it seems disrespectful to enter a church wearing jeans and meditation beads. Maybe a rosary would have helped, but oh well.
The real reason I visited the church today was the cemetery. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I didn’t even know there was a cemetery at the foot of the church until a few days ago. I had past the church at least a hundred times, but never really paid attention to what I was seeing, and then poof. It was there.
The cemetery was small, with tombstones dating from the early 1930s to the late 1960s. My Flemish isn’t great, but it seemed to be a combination of priests who had served in the church with a few parishioners. Some of the stones were old and worn, making it hard to even read the words. Others were shiny and new, as though they had only been put in yesterday. There were plots with planters, where flowers could be growing, and others covered in marble. Some of the graves seemed as though they had been forgotten, and others had clearly been visited recently, with gifts of flowers, wreaths, and even a candle (not lit anymore). There was so much to see in such a small place.
I know, some people out there are instantly asking, why did I go there? I didn’t know anyone, I wasn’t leaving flowers, or cleaning. Simply put, I went to visit those who were gone. Each of these people had a story.
The priest in the back, who died in his seventies, and was born in the later years of the 1880s. His plot was large, covered in white marble with a simple black cross above his name. As a priest, he obviously did’t have a wife or children, but someone felt it was important to bury him with well. Even all of these years later, the tombstone is clean and well cared for. It seemed obvious that he was well loved in his time to get such a tribute.
There was the couple buried under the large tree. The husband was almost fifteen years older than his wife, but she died within two weeks of his passing. People talk about dying from a broken heart; maybe she just couldn’t stand the idea of continuing on without him.
In a tiny corner, a plain cross marked the grave where a four year old was laid to rest. The plot next to him was empty, perhaps still waiting for his parents to join him.
It is said that no one who is remembered is ever really dead. I don’t know these people, but how they were laid to rest tells me a part of their story. It’s stories of love, and heartbreak. Most of our everyday lives are filled with routine, the boring things that must be done for us to continue on. When we die, everything we ever were becomes clear because that is how we are remembered.
If this isn’t inspiring, I’m not sure what is.