Well, there I was, merrily writing away, absorbed in my enchanted sandpit of words: castles and moats galore, my hair and gusset full of sand, and not a care in the world.
Until I asked the wrong people for feedback.
When they told me my castles were “a bit much”, I quietly left the beach, my creative armbands losing air. I let the tide come in and wash my miniature kingdom away, turning my back on my inner sea.
The ebb came and went, inhaling and exhaling each day’s rich shore of possibility; fresh shells, new rockpools, shoals of will-o’-the-wisps all glistening hopefully. “Come back!” they cried, “We want to play!” But I refused, digging deeper into my own full-stop while those little wriggles of inspiration called in vain.
Until today, when Julia found my little red bucket and spade and threw them back onto the beach for me – plastic gauntlets of play. “It’s your homework”, she told me, smiling through her voicenote. “Write an essay on erasing the full stop.” At last, I had no excuse anymore! I was being told to build sandcastles for the pure fun of it. Who was I to disobey?!
After all, I hadn’t really been asking for feedback, had I?
I’d been asking for permission.
Darn it, I’d been checking – again – whether me and my wobbly creations were allowed, leaving the poor things to prove their worth against the waves. What a bloody drama queen!
I have always valiantly upheld the importance of feedback as a commitment to learning and growth: a point of honour; an exercise in humility. I thought it was noble and virtuous to expose myself to the cleansing winds of criticism.
What a foolish scourge, to sacrifice one’s creativity at the make-believe altar of another’s words.
As the Buddha said, “Even as a solid rock is unshaken by the wind, so are the wise unshaken by praise or blame”. Or as Julia put it, “I don’t want silly old feedback! I just want to do what I want to do.” (I can’t tell you how much I love her take on it!)
I’d hardly given my wonky castle of creativity a chance to settle in the sand before exposing it to the harsh waves of judgement, like unclothing a newborn on a mountaintop.
Really, Clare, did it need to be the moment the poor thing emerged, still blinking and bleating in shock? Freshly delivered from its warm, protected womb into the brittle glare of others’ creative blocks?
All that is new and unsure must be nurtured and protected awhile; given time to grow solid and steady roots.
Creativity is no different.
The Balinese have a ritual where newborns don’t touch the ground for the first three months of their lives. They are carried everywhere as sacred guests until they’re thought to be fully anchored into human life; only then are their feet ceremoniously placed upon the Earth.
I think I might take a leaf out of their book and welcome this guest into my life with a little more care before I plonk it in the dirty backyard of other people’s feedback. After all, when I first started writing my blog, I opened with this statement: “This blog is my intention to share – to open, to risk and to trust – and a commitment to authenticity; a practice of releasing self-expression as freely and lightly as I can, letting thistledown-thoughts drift gently in the breeze of this curious confetti of life experience.”
I didn’t mention asking for permission or making each seed prove its worth. And I’m hardly releasing them freely and lightly if I’m asking for others’ feedback, am I? I’m more like an anxious parent constantly calling my newly fledged teenager’s friends to check my little darling is safe!
And would you believe it? As I’ve been writing this, not one, not two, but THREE thistledowns have drifted in through my attic window and across my desk.
