Gee…wow! I did it again! Six ten to twelve hour days of modernizing the house's interior a bit by putting up some crown molding and replacing the dippy little base molding with something that looks so much better. It's cost my aching body some lost sleep, a lot of physical discomfort otherwise, and not a few bucks.
So why do it keep doing it? I could live with things as is. Or I could always hire a trim crew, pour a brewski, sit back, roll my eyes at the noise and dust – and then simply write a check.
It's creative, that's why.
I expend a lot of my creativity in writing and playing music – a lot of things that may never see the light of day in the conventional sense. And they're mostly mental exercises of one sort or another.
But my mind needs my body. I can be creative in some fey world all I want, but sometimes the body craves it's own sort of reality. And so I can now look around at my garden, my pond, my berry vines, my house's increasingly pleasing interior, and I see that physical creativity already rewarded, a perhaps perfectly egoistic mirror of who and what I am. It's at times like this that I begin to understand why Tolstoy used to work in the fields with the serfs.
Ahem. Tomorrow I'll rub on some liniment and get back to writing. Maybe there'll also be an hour in which I can get reacquainted with one of my guitars. But when I go back upstairs for a second cuppa, I'll pause for a moment to note with great satisfaction what wood, tools, nails, paint – and a few drops of blood – have wrought.