a circle of quiet.
"Every so often I need OUT; something will throw me into total disproportion, and I have to get away from everybody--away from all these people I love most in the world--in order to regain a sense of proportion...My special place is a small brook in a green glade, a circle of quiet from which there is no visible sign of human beings...The brook wanders through a tunnel of foliage, and the birds sing more sweetly there than anywhere else; or perhaps it is just that when I am at the brook I have time to be aware of them, and I move slowly into a kind of peace that is marvelous, 'annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade.' If I sit for a while, then my impatience, crossness, frustration, are indeed annihilated, and my sense of humor returns."
- M. L'Engle, from A Circle of Quiet

This is my twelfth day in New Orleans, and the first real length of time I've had to myself in that time. I didn't manage to fall asleep until 9am this morning. By the time I awaken at 11am, all eight of my cohort have departed, a sweet note left on a table to say goodbye. I shower, dress, pack, leave a generous tip for the maid in apology for the ruinous state of the suite, and turn in the suite keys.

I have over six hours of time to myself before a metal-winged bird is scheduled to return me to Portland, and I'm glad to have this.

Oregon sits at the other end of the Lewis and Clark expedition, which began on the Mississippi River with the primary goal to find an all-water route to the Pacific Ocean; the expedition found its destination at the mouth of the Columbia River, the river that defines the border of Oregon and Washington. So hello to you, those in Portland, from the other end of that all-water route.

With no particular destination of my own in mind, I walk out of the hotel, my feet turning with aimless certainty towards water: the mighty, muddy Mississippi. My instinct is always to head towards water, towards ocean. (Going away, away towards the sea/River deep, can you lift up and carry me.) First down Conti to Decatur, then down nearly the entire length of the French Quarter to the French Market area near Esplanade. Turn into Cafe Envie, a previously unexplored cafe. A deep red leather couch presses close to a windowed wall; from speakers set high, the lilting voice of Bjork drifts down; the setting seems to have been patiently awaiting me to wander in.

I engage in a brief bit of interaction with the friendly barista: they serve Oregon Chai here, and we commiserate on its inferior quality; I point him towards my favorite blend, Dragonfly; we exchange stories on the best chai we've ever had, both home-made concoctions with plenty of cardamom; he fixes me up a chai, extra strong. By the time I pay and turn away, the long red leather couch has been vacated, and I situate myself at one end of it. A guy sitting at the other end of the cafe not-so-surreptitiously relocates himself directly next to me and casts sideways glances; I note his attention but ignore it. My knapsack is positioned strategically next to me; the chatter of voices and the near presence of strangers only intensifies my willful alone-ness rather than distracting from it.

I pull my book out of my knapsack - Madeleine L'Engle's A Circle of Quiet, a mostly nonfiction autobiographical novel I've been meaning to read for a while. She is mainly known for her "juvenile" series, A Wrinkle In Time, which I have long loved; her adult nonfiction is quite different, but at the same time, not. I found the book serendipitously at a charming bookstore on Dauphine Street here, a narrow one-man operation crammed to capacity with books of quality. The shopowner was eager to converse about his stock. I peppered him with questions, and he trailed me around his small shop, helpfully pointing out and presenting me with books he thought I would enjoy. I was delighted to find this book, used, and he shared in that delight in the way of an authentic bibliophile. And I've been delighting in reading it in the snatches of time I've had to do so here; she writes with a frank and perceptive thoughtfulness I deeply appreciate, and I think I would love to have a conversation with her if I could.

I begin reading again from the beginning, marking out passages I want to return to later, or with which I feel present resonance or harmony:

"The concentration of a small child at play is analogous to the concentration of the artist of any discipline. In real play, which is real concentration, the child is not only outside time, he is outside himself. He has thrown himself completely into whatever it is that he is doing. A child playing a game, building a sand castle, painting a picture, is completely in what he is doing. His self-consciousness is gone; his consciousness is wholly focused outside himself."

"When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we also escape our self-conscious selves."

"It can't be done unless you have that special kind of creative courage which is unself-conscious: the moment you wonder whether or not you can do it, you can't."

"Creativity is an act of discovering."

"When we can play with the unself-conscious concentration of a child, this is: art: prayer: love."

I mark the above passages because they resonate strongly with something that's been much on my mind since my California camping trip late last June: the nature of joyful creative focus and explorative modes of thought/being. Like Mrs. L'Engle, I've been thinking about these things in the context of play. While rambling around the forests and streams of northeastern California, I was piercingly reminded of the kind of fearless, playful/adventurous focus I've fallen into naturally since a child wandering the streets of Seoul alone, and at (too many) times lost along the way. That unself-conscious focus has had tremendous value in development; I recognize it as what has allowed me to grow in the ways I have, and also what brings me, personally, the feeling of simplest joy and aliveness.

To forge forward into unknown territory, you can afford little attention to what or who's behind, or doubts about whether you are going the right way, or what those behind or alongside you are thinking about what you are doing -- at least, beyond what is necessary for safety and awareness of the overall intent of the forging, however nebulous that intent might be. One cannot afford doubt or fear; awareness of potential consequences or harm, yes, but not fear. Awareness that one is fallible and not omniscient, acceptance that one's perceptions and thoughts may be wrong, and the flexibility to take in and incorporate new information and change course as necessary, yes, but not the kind of doubt that cripples you and leaves you unable to move in any direction. That such doubt and fear will be there sometimes is granted, and only human, but to indulge, to make an eternity of what should be a passing moment to move beyond, is a special self-created hell.

I struggle sometimes with the fact that currently and for several years now, outside of my job which is inherently creative, I have been producing no creative output externally. I have always considered myself an intrinsically creative person and do not doubt that I am. Regardless, that what I feel is intrinsic has no recent external reflection that can be immediately perceived by the senses sometimes feels like an invalidation. But I'm mostly at peace with that, and any small part of me that isn't generally has to do with ego and requires no attention. I don't think of creativity as something that necessarily creates a tangible product, though it often does and should find such expression, not to mention that is can be found via/through expression. Continued growth and shifting of awareness and self is in itself a creative act, just as the child at play is creative. Creativity is an act of discovering. Expression will have its time.

I am rambling, but I mean to.