God Grant Me the Self-Assurance of Sourdough Yeast

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I’ve been trying to write practically every day since the pandemic commenced and I’m finding it increasingly difficult. The polarized and ever-evolving conditions never seem “just right” for polished expression. Then again, the current conditions don’t seem right for any of my zig zagging whimsies either. Frankly, I’ve found 2020 to be almost the antithesis of whimsy. Taylor Swift just released an album, “Folklore,” one of the few prominent creatives who have released a high-profile body of work during these dark times. Her introductory note to the album states that she poured all of her “whims, dreams, fears, and musings” into it. The notion that one has successfully dumped their COVID-era whims into a critically acclaimed piece of art is enough to make me want to rip my skin off. It doesn’t help that I personally found “Folklore” to be absolutely delightful. Kill me now. 

I have myriad whims, and instead of manifesting on paper in any profound and productive way, they’re twisting and turning in my gut, manifesting as persistent acid reflux than anything that Bon Iver would want to collaborate on. That’s not to say my household has been devoid of creativity. At this exact moment, my 11-year-old daughter is in the kitchen baking “margarita cupcakes.” They have tequila in the frosting – she’s giving the people what they want! While I flail about in neutral, she’s embraced the simple pleasures of baking, celebrating her increasingly complex techniques through beautiful carb-rich creations that the entire family has relished in. I want so desperately to find refuge in the soft folds of cake batter, which will reliably coagulate in the heat. There is so much satisfaction in the beauty of a perfectly golden cupcake or bread loaf. It takes little effort to understand why supermarkets have been short on flour and yeast over the last few months. The convergence of reliability, beauty, and comfort found in the baking experience is exactly what a world that has been throttled into disarray needs.

Unfortunately, I don’t bake, I write. And nothing I can express right now can possibly be beautiful or comfortable, and certainly not reliable. My mind has been spiraling more than a hunk of ham – and my heart, which tries so hard under normal circumstances to prop up all this mental chaos with some sort of moral soundness, is like a weather-worn statue of Atlas ready to crumble on the weight of it all. Most days I’m the personification of a fallen cake, burned around the edges, mushy in the center, more savory than sweet in all the wrong ways, at which its creator yells “I don’t know what I did wrong! I followed all the instructions and it’s still completely messed up!” 

(Okay, so I did just find some joy in picturing Jesus in a well-appointed kitchen, angrily flinging chunks of confetti cake into the garbage.)

Again, I’m not sure the current conditions are right for my whims. They’re erratic, half-baked, bursting with incongruent textures and flavors, and confusing to most people I share them with. How does that integrate into said conditions, which are decidedly ripe for focused, large-scale systemic overhaul. They’re ripe for long-overdue discord, for broad dissent, and for an entire re-authoring of the world and the societies that comprise it. 

The world has proclaimed, rightly so, that creators must use their voices. They must maximize their platforms for good, to usher the hoards of willing disciples to the light of a newly conceptualized existence. We’ve already moved past the Great Pause and are now neck-deep in the Great Reset. Creators who remain stubbornly rooted in the Old World must be toppled into a six-foot deep pit of obscurity, and new thinkers must act fast, act decisively, act bravely. 

My heart acts fast, my brain is decisive, my spirit is brave. But my words, which are the mouthpiece for these admirable attributes – well, they are slow. They are scared, insecure, and they second guess at every turn. Established journalists and novelists have discerning editors that serve almost as philosophical safety nets. They are the shrewd sounding boards that reign in whimsical creators to the parameters that ensure their relevancy and resiliency. I am the writer and the editor all at once, and the checks and balances system for my own brazen expression is basically a swinging tightrope with nothing but a death fall beneath it. 

Every day I try to push through my own internal resistance and speak bold words that, unless released, will slowly erode my spirit until there’s nothing left. I can already feel the violent spiritual by-product of my fear – the sensation of getting sucked into my mattress at night, like those cursed teenagers in the “Nightmare on Elm Street” movies. Speak out and lose family and friends, burn bridges, and shiver in the chill of heightened isolation and anxiety. Don’t speak out and allow my spirit to get shredded to a bloody pulp by a Freddy Krueger-like boogeyman who rightly punishes milquetoast moderation in the wee hours of the night.

I am struggling with this conundrum. In the meantime, maybe I’ll focus my energy on a sourdough bread starter kit, just like everyone else. At least yeast knows what it’s supposed to do.

Oh No, My Metaphorical Carcass Is Splitting

Creativity, Parenthood, Working Mom

When women return to the workforce after maternity leave, there’s this immediate focus on maximum efficiency hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute. Never a moment wasted “on the clock,” for wasted moments during the work day lead to workload spillover at night, thus infringing on those precious few hours that can be enjoyed with one’s darling children.

Creativity is a lot like that child begging for attention at night (and, in my case, is in addition to actual human children). I constantly yearn to do more than what has already been deemed excessive by most definitions of work/life “equity.” It would be far less emotionally taxing to not feel so compelled to CREATE and instead remain focused on that maximum corporate efficiency during the day and the dutiful parenting at night.

Instead, I often feel like I’m strapped to one of those medieval limb stretching devices, being yanked to the north, south, east, and west until my carcass cracks and splits and pops open like a piñata.

Yes, it really would be so much more pleasant to not feel driven to stay up until 1 AM to write a bunch of meandering metaphors about screaming babies and splitting carcasses, but here we are.

It’s been 454 days since I last wrote an original piece of my own. It’s been two years since I last produced a sketch show. I recently discovered that I’ve forgotten how to read music and my muscle memory as a pianist is all but gone. This is more than a little dry spell. This is my own personal artistic Sahara Desert, all 3.6 million square miles of it. (Yeah, I’m using a lot of metaphors but I fact check the hell out of them.) And while I’m in the middle of the desert, something is pushing me to find that oasis that will rehydrate me and propel me out of the dunes.

I’ve been feeling an overwhelming sense over the last many months that my next big creative “a-ha!” is right around the corner. I think I just needed to let that crackling pig skin tear open. In the desert. While a baby screams for attention. As a crappy rendition of “Chopsticks” clangs in the background.

Wow, I am really rusty.

Okay, Pokay. Time to get to work.