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Being creative while adulting is hard—whether it’s those cherished side projects, creative hobbies, creative work, or simply having the time/space to think, brainstorm, problem-solve, and respond creatively to life. We’re caretaking, paying mortgages, and fixing broken water heaters. We have careers that are going well, not so-well, or circling retirement. We used to be able to live off pizza and beer, and now track cholesterol and need two days to recover from two drinks. And our strongest creative guide—our inner child—seems to be getting quieter and fainter. Thanks again, Society. How can we reverse this creative downward spiral? Not by wishing we could turn back time or giving up; but by reintroducing our creative, nonjudgemental, excited inner child to our older, wiser, more experienced selves. One of my favorite creative childhood memories spans fifth grade when my parents were building the house they have since lived in for 35 years. My mom is an interior designer so this was basically her dream job—besides that they had to pay for it this time. We’d drive just 20 minutes—though it felt like worlds away—from the suburbs to the “country” most weekends so my parents could build our excitement for the move (which worked). During the colder months in Northeastern Ohio, we’d bring Quik hot chocolate in a thermos. I have very clear memories of standing on the second story of the house while it was still studs and plywood (safe-ish?) and feeling as if all my favorite childhood games were coming to life—playing house, building houses out of the cardboard rectangles my dad’s work shirt dry cleaning came back in (please tell me someone knows what I mean), collecting dollhouse furniture, rummaging through all my moms wallpaper and fabric samples for craft projects. My imagination was on fire. I can even still remember the scent—a blend of the house wood and the actual woods surrounding us.
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