Remember senior superlatives from high school? Sure you do. I was most talented one year, according to Northwestern High School in the booming metropolis of Rock Hill, South Carolina. One would think, having received this exalted ranking by popular vote, that I would consider myself to be creative. More-than-a decade-old, no-longer-relevant title aside, I’ve been wondering lately if I can honestly call myself “creative.”
After six years of lessons, all I can conjure up are bits of Beethoven’s Fur Elise and Bryan Adams’s Everything I Do (I Do It For You) when I sit down at the piano. I associate my sketch of marbles reflected in a pocket mirror more with punching the boy next to me for laughing that I had “chicken legs” than with the middle school art show second place ribbon it garnered. I can sing in a surprisingly loud, mostly on key alto, but good projection is only that. My poetry, well, it sucks so hard that I’ve destroyed everything I’ve tried to write for the past decade.
And then there’s dance. Well, to be more accurate, there was dance.
When I was a toddler, I begged my mom to let me take dance lessons.
Convinced that my old
er sister had begun too soon, she wouldn’t let
me start until I was in first grade. I still question my mom’s logic, but the fact is that m y dancing years still outweigh my non-dancing years about two to one.
Over the years, I took tap, jazz, ballet, and modern. During high school, I focused on ballet. I spent hours and hours at the studio. I lived a nd breathed The Nutcracker, Les Sylphides, Coppelia, Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty (pictured here, with me downstage). Significant portions of my summers were spent at various dance
“camps,” for lack of a better word. Though I stopped performing after high school, I continued to take modern and ballet classes while I was in
undergrad and in graduate school.
Right now, between work, parenting, and household duties, I don’t dance, unless you count the random, spontaneous pirouettes in the kitchen, which I don’t. I am exiled to the good ol’ American role of
consumer. Since I work with high school students, I attend recitals by the dozen. I go to museums and to the ballet sporadically. I scribble on paper place mats with my sixteen month old at restaurants. I read others’ short stories, novels, biographies, poetry, and sometimes edit my friends’ and colleagues’ attempts at the written word. Others create while I watch or occasionally make marginally helpful suggestions.
These others, some of whom have been represented in this column over the past several years, have
been better than I have been at keeping up with their chosen
creative outlet. I respect and admire their tenacity. The truth is, I’m not sure I could have picked an artistic endeavor that is more forgiving to people in their thirties (and older). I didn’t really choose dance. Like the Triune God’s prevenient grace, dance chose me. Yet I’ve had to let go of acting on that part of my identity go for now.
Here’s how I see it: everything about us and about this world is finite. Creaturliness, and ergo our own creativity, comes with a degree of transiency.
Though we can and do create, as
creatures, we are not that which defines creativity; no matter how
wonderfully creative we are at certain times in our lives, we are not
Creator, capital C. The “You can have it all”/”You can do
everything” metanarrative in which many of us swim is not only
unhelpful, it’s untrue, and, despite what some extremely popular
preachers would want us to believe, it is decidedly not Christian.
I don’t want suggestions on how to integrate dance into my life
right now. I’m also not looking for reassurance in the form of, “Aw, Ann, you are
so creative!” comments. Whether or not creative is a good descriptor for me, I am a dancer. I was a dancer before I took a single step. I’m still a dancer though I don’t dance right now.
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