Moi je joue
Making light... playfulness and creativity and a room of one's own
Sometimes it’s just so damn hard to be light.
Maybe it’s just me and I don’t know what’s changed really. The carefree joy of youth was equally challenged with the same ordinary day to day burdens of life and work and yet it somehow seemed weightless then, more of an undercurrent to the thrills of exploring and creating and just enjoying life. Somehow, over the years, the undercurrent took over. I want it back, damn it. I want to shrug off the heaviness and embrace playfulness again.
Don’t get me wrong, the day is often filled with delightful glimmers of beauty that light the soul and inspire creativity - an enchanting trill of birdsong across a soft dawn, the pretty petals of a rose glistening with dew, a lovely laughter-filled meal with friends, the colourful swirls and swishes of colours or words on a clean canvas. I just want more than glimmers and more time and space for creative play.
I found myself feeling quite irritated the other day. My almost 30 year old stepson came from the mainland where he’s been living to stay for a week, to help out with a little DIY home project, but then got a seasonal work opportunity and asked if he could stay for a couple of months. How could I say no? So, I said yes and instantly regretted it. Don’t get me wrong; I love our kids, our blended family, and enjoy our time together. I love when they visit. And, this one is lovely in many ways but I have always found him difficult to live with. The first week was even pleasant. The second fine and then… He’s loud and messy, quite theatrical, and just constantly around, using my things, oblivious to personal space or a couple’s need for privacy. It doesn’t help of course that we’re still living in our caravan while we wait for building approval and he’s pitched a tent in the garden.
Over the weeks since he arrived, I’ve found myself becoming increasingly irritated. My nervous system strained. The differences of opinion on matters of personal hygiene and table etiquette are difficult to live with and while I try hard not to look or notice, I can sometimes feel Archie Bunker on my shoulder which is equally irritating and funny. He’s not my son; I didn’t raise him but he is my husband’s son so what can you do. The hardest part actually is having to endure the endless philosophising and the seesawing between self-pity and rebel cries of freedom. It’s always all about him of course. Easy to spout off about living life as one wants when you’re living at ‘home’ with parents who quietly sort out the ordinary hum-drum aspects of life - pay all the bills, do all the shopping, cooking, cleaning, and take out the trash - isn’t it. With him, we’re lucky if the rubbish even makes it into the bin.
What is it with this generation? They seem so lost. Fragile even. Everyone says, ‘oh, it’s so much harder for young people today.’ Is it? As a Gen Xer, I think my generation had it pretty tough but what do I know.
I do know, at the end of the day, this situation like everything is temporary, but it’s all disturbing my energy. Yesterday, I heard myself complaining to my husband about the situation and thought, ‘shit, I’m turning into a cranky old biddy’. It was not a good feeling. It is definitely not my favourite version of myself. In equal measure, there was shock at seeing myself like that and resentment against my stepson for provoking this. Reminded me of the old women on my grandmother’s street who used to shout at us from their windows to keep the noise down when we played dodgeball in the street or swung from the weeping willow branches on the corner. I do not want to be that woman.
Maybe it’s an age thing? I’m much more sensitive to noise than I used to be and I find myself craving quiet and slow, softness. I take pleasure in little things, the stillness of drinking my coffee in the early morning garden, the sweetness of time alone in nature with the sun on my face. There is deep joy in hours absorbed with painting, gardening, or writing. At my age, it seems lightness and playfulness take shape in a different way. It still requires that mental space and freedom from the weight of responsibility though.
By responsibility, I don’t mean responsibility for myself. Taking responsibility for oneself is what it means to be free, I think. I mean taking responsibility for everyone else around - their welfare and even to some extent happiness. Clocking when others finish things so that I put it on my weekly shopping list. Cleaning up after others so that our space is an uncluttered and pleasant experience. Being available to listen to others’ problem at at the drop of a hat, at all hours of the day. A liberation from the demands and expectations of others on my time and energy. And, I fully realise and not without some irony that a lot of it is self-imposed.
I felt guilt for my irritation and resentment and then defensive. Did I not just spend the last forty years of my life being responsible, accountable, paying the bills, looking after my family, my staff, reporting to often unreasonable bosses and clients? Surely I too exist and have earned the right to live as I want now. To be carefree. Light.
Perhaps it’s just a question of escaping yourself? For forty years, I guess I assumed a role, the role of responsible adult, and I think part of what I’m struggling with now in ‘retirement’ is the difficulty of letting that version of myself go and rediscovering my sense of playfulness. Letting go of things that no longer serve. Letting go of negative emotions even.
To be honest, I’d like nothing more than to float dreamlike through life like Anaïs Nin pursuing love and beauty; immersed in all that is lyrical and enchanting. I don’t need the ecstatic and marvellous quite so much but she understood playfulness, didn’t she, Anaïs? Times were different then and she never had children so… well… but still, the goal of seeing the world as ‘a blooming fragrant garden’ is appealing. She often spoke of writing as an escape from the harsh realities of life, of worlds she couldn’t live in, and the need to create her own world through writing. She spoke of the need for discipline and emotional honesty and wrote mostly in the early morning hours before the bustle of the day intruded.
Anaïs’ conditions for writing resonate and I can transform my current reality through writing into some delightful, even amusing, narrative but I can’t seem to get enough mental and physical space from the situation to do it. It occurs to me that there is something else too that needs to be in place and Virginia Woolf seems to have captured this perhaps more material requirement. Privacy - a room of one’s own. Perhaps for Anaïs this was a given. While both reference the need for discipline and freedom from the inner critic to write, Virginia also discusses the need for mental space. This, I think, is what’s missing at the moment for me - both the mental and physical space to lose myself in playful creation, to be creative without interruption, interference, judgement or distraction. I don’t want to have to think about what’s for dinner. Every. Damn. Day.
A few interesting bits of writing on Anaïs:
Byron’s Muse Anaïs Nin – We Write to Taste Life Twice
The Marginalian Anaïs Nin on Embracing the Unfamiliar
Curious about other writers’ requirements for writing, I did a little research on a few of my other favourites.
The wonderful Tessa Hadley crafts her realism infused tales in quiet corners (often a little table in her bedroom) rather than a formal, dedicated study because it allows her some ‘calculated carelessness’. Quite a playful approach it seems. She also often begins by reading a few sentences from favourite authors like Elizabeth Bowen or Alice Munro to help build a bridge into her own writing. She talks about her duality as a writer and the image she shares of her writer self as a kind of character waiting in the wings, off stage, to engage in her craft is rather amusing.
Isabel Allende is quite disciplined about her writing - a word which crops up frequently with writers. She writes alone in an attic space and doesn’t share anything with anyone till a first draft is done. She talks about this ‘inner room’ when crafting a story — a dedicated mental and emotional space—where a writer can find silence, solitude, and respect for their work, even if they don't have a separate physical room.
Elif Shafak doesn’t talk about discipline or a private space. She carves out space where and when she can and takes a very flexible approach. I read something about her liking to write in a noisy atmosphere, often playing songs on repeat. I do that too but not the heavy metal that she listens to! But I get it; I went through a period of listening to Lenny Kravitz on headphones with volume up when I worked in an open plan office. Elif does talk about the need to silence the inner critic or sensor which is another common theme with writers I’m discovering.
Maya Angelou rented a nearby hotel room, bringing only a dictionary, bible, and deck of cards, where she worked from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m.. Such discipline. Obviously worked well!
There’s more on spaces and practices of other creative women in The Culturium article about the Mason Currey: Daily Rituals, Women at Work book published in 2019. Artsy also produced an editorial on Currey’s book when it came out with a sample of 10 profiles. Currey had previously written, in 2013, a book on daily rituals of writers both male and female and there’s a lovely article in The Marginalian about it. Fascinating stuff!
Anyway, rant pretty much over. Guess I’ll just have to grin and bear it, take my play as and when I can, till he leaves and till we have our house with a room of my own. Oh yes, I will have a room of my own. It’s going to be beautiful too with French doors to the garden and morning sun and filled with my books and art and plants and… Makes my heart lighter just thinking about it.
Well, that’s me. Drop me a note in the comments below. Would love to hear from you…
ciao per ora bellissime sorelle / bye for now beautiful sisters
F ox
NB Cover photo is of me in Singapore, light and carefree in my late 20s.
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