What I learned from a lobster.
It turns out we are more like lobsters in spirit than in sunburn.
I found out in a video on Facebook. The caption, "Responding to Stress," got my attention. Or was it the close-up of an old, white-bearded, Nostradamus-looking man in a yarmulke—a rabbi? Or maybe just a wise Jewish guy.
In brief but infinite wisdom, Maybe-Rabbi Guy explained the radical adaptability of lobsters, which he had discovered while reading a magazine in a dentist's waiting room. A lobster, as it expands in size, will shed its old shell and grow a bigger one, time and again. In those highly vulnerable, naked times, what does the lobster do? It finds a quiet, dark spot to hang out until its new shell is ready to be revealed.
The lobster is to the sea what the artist is to the earth. As the lobster feels the discomfort of its own existence—as its shell becomes too small for its guts—it withdraws, only to emerge anew, having created a work of art.
How often are we too small for our guts? Each time, each of its own duration and circumstances, I came out having created something, maybe a new job or a new city or a new friend or a love either lasting or not. Or I created a human—twice over now. Or I used my discomfort to create art: collages and wall hangings made with doll heads, old cassette parts, and cigarette-ad cowboys; a purse made from a repurposed dress that was never worn; necklaces and rings made from a long-gone great aunt's reconfigured costume jewelry; shirts and skirts and scarves, ripped and cut and reanimated; and words! Most prolific were my words: essays inspired by leaves and layers, bees and ex-best friends, vintage hats and virile strangers; offspring and off-putting opinions.
What if I lose my art?
That question stayed hot to the touch for many years of my life. What would become of me as a creator if my life lost its pattern of having no pattern? My nontraditional existence—single, capricious, mildly irresponsible—was what had provided food for thought, thoughts for words, words for fulfillment. During all the years when my friends and former classmates were getting married and having children, I was growing guts that would outgrow my shell.
I found out in a video on Facebook. The caption, "Responding to Stress," got my attention. Or was it the close-up of an old, white-bearded, Nostradamus-looking man in a yarmulke—a rabbi? Or maybe just a wise Jewish guy.
In brief but infinite wisdom, Maybe-Rabbi Guy explained the radical adaptability of lobsters, which he had discovered while reading a magazine in a dentist's waiting room. A lobster, as it expands in size, will shed its old shell and grow a bigger one, time and again. In those highly vulnerable, naked times, what does the lobster do? It finds a quiet, dark spot to hang out until its new shell is ready to be revealed.
The lobster is to the sea what the artist is to the earth. As the lobster feels the discomfort of its own existence—as its shell becomes too small for its guts—it withdraws, only to emerge anew, having created a work of art.
How often are we too small for our guts? Each time, each of its own duration and circumstances, I came out having created something, maybe a new job or a new city or a new friend or a love either lasting or not. Or I created a human—twice over now. Or I used my discomfort to create art: collages and wall hangings made with doll heads, old cassette parts, and cigarette-ad cowboys; a purse made from a repurposed dress that was never worn; necklaces and rings made from a long-gone great aunt's reconfigured costume jewelry; shirts and skirts and scarves, ripped and cut and reanimated; and words! Most prolific were my words: essays inspired by leaves and layers, bees and ex-best friends, vintage hats and virile strangers; offspring and off-putting opinions.
What if I lose my art?
That question stayed hot to the touch for many years of my life. What would become of me as a creator if my life lost its pattern of having no pattern? My nontraditional existence—single, capricious, mildly irresponsible—was what had provided food for thought, thoughts for words, words for fulfillment. During all the years when my friends and former classmates were getting married and having children, I was growing guts that would outgrow my shell.
What else is there?
Last December, shortly before Christmas, as I sat in my rocking chair nursing my big-eyed baby boy and watching the Today Show, I felt vindicated by Adele. It took a minute to get there. When she began to speak, I couldn't help but marvel at her impossibly unblemished buttermilk-tinged-with-newborn-pink skin. At 39, I had started seeing (and feeling) myself aging. The woman in my mirror had tired eyes. She could no longer run six miles effortlessly. She had a butt bigger than ever and breasts that were somehow shrinking, even as they filled with milk for a newborn. On my TV screen, Adele was the ageless angel I'd never be again. Thankfully, the interview tore me away from my older-mom lamentations as Adele spoke about losing her art. After exiting a difficult phase of her life and entering a contented one, she wondered what would become of her ability to write. Me too.
I feared the onset of Settled Life for years. Wouldn't I be bored? Boring? What would I write about?
Then I met my fear. My days are now routine: I take care of kids. Fret over what to make for dinner. Wonder how the laundry multiplies when I'm not looking. Give the dog his glucosamine. Scurry to fit in a 20-minute miracle workout.
I haven't run out of inspiration for writing. The difference is that I have much less time to write. So wait my muses do, hung up on the walls of my mind. Mental sticky notes galore. While my minutes are limited, my heart is thankfully oblivious and continues to pump inspiration into my veins every day. I still work as a writer, though not much since the birth of my second son. Returning to work on a regular basis is a goal. Even closer to that loyal heart of mine: returning to life as a writer's writer. That means here, in this space that is the framework for...something bigger, someday, somehow.
On that pre-Christmas morning in my worn-in body and worn-out pajamas, I felt a kinship with Adele. We both discovered that art remains within us even when we've stopped giving our lives hell, or, in rarer cases, when life stops giving us hell.
Today is the first day I've written in months. It feels like home, like I knew it would.
And as I write, I know chaos still has a place and a purpose in my life, and in the life of anyone who yearns to create. Chaos, like the lobster's ill-fitting shell, pushes us to become vulnerable, to take time to heal, and to re-emerge revitalized.
As lobsters age, their predators become fewer. In fact, the main predator for an adult lobster is an adult human. That lesson teaches itself.
Last December, shortly before Christmas, as I sat in my rocking chair nursing my big-eyed baby boy and watching the Today Show, I felt vindicated by Adele. It took a minute to get there. When she began to speak, I couldn't help but marvel at her impossibly unblemished buttermilk-tinged-with-newborn-pink skin. At 39, I had started seeing (and feeling) myself aging. The woman in my mirror had tired eyes. She could no longer run six miles effortlessly. She had a butt bigger than ever and breasts that were somehow shrinking, even as they filled with milk for a newborn. On my TV screen, Adele was the ageless angel I'd never be again. Thankfully, the interview tore me away from my older-mom lamentations as Adele spoke about losing her art. After exiting a difficult phase of her life and entering a contented one, she wondered what would become of her ability to write. Me too.
I feared the onset of Settled Life for years. Wouldn't I be bored? Boring? What would I write about?
Then I met my fear. My days are now routine: I take care of kids. Fret over what to make for dinner. Wonder how the laundry multiplies when I'm not looking. Give the dog his glucosamine. Scurry to fit in a 20-minute miracle workout.
I haven't run out of inspiration for writing. The difference is that I have much less time to write. So wait my muses do, hung up on the walls of my mind. Mental sticky notes galore. While my minutes are limited, my heart is thankfully oblivious and continues to pump inspiration into my veins every day. I still work as a writer, though not much since the birth of my second son. Returning to work on a regular basis is a goal. Even closer to that loyal heart of mine: returning to life as a writer's writer. That means here, in this space that is the framework for...something bigger, someday, somehow.
On that pre-Christmas morning in my worn-in body and worn-out pajamas, I felt a kinship with Adele. We both discovered that art remains within us even when we've stopped giving our lives hell, or, in rarer cases, when life stops giving us hell.
Today is the first day I've written in months. It feels like home, like I knew it would.
And as I write, I know chaos still has a place and a purpose in my life, and in the life of anyone who yearns to create. Chaos, like the lobster's ill-fitting shell, pushes us to become vulnerable, to take time to heal, and to re-emerge revitalized.
As lobsters age, their predators become fewer. In fact, the main predator for an adult lobster is an adult human. That lesson teaches itself.
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