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I used to be in an Artist’s Club, I just didn’t know it until it was over.  There were no dues or t-shirts, no regular meeting dates, no verbal oath, but we were all members because of our passion for some type of art. We each had an invisible thread leading us to these callings, we were all storytellers using our mediums. We were actors finding a voice, we imagined and built the dream worlds of playwrights, we were instruments tuning our music to the air, and bodies leaning into grace.

I suppose our meeting place could be called Classroom, since this was during my high school and college years, but the action really happened in the constant creative buzz of activity and ideas.  With no orchestration on my part, I  found myself daily discussing a character or play over a bagel, learning a new skill to help someone’s idea move along, and all of this sent me running to my journal to fill it with dreams to bursting.  Every day I created, and took it for granted that I had the time and that I would be with others doing the same thing.

I didn’t realize that the rich creative time and resources at my fingertips were limited.

A few years into marriage and mama-hood, I took a good look around the utterly foreign world that was now mine.  It wasn’t until I was reading through Madeleine L’engle’s  journals that I realized I had left my club behind or even realized there was a club, or how much it had stimulated my creative life. L’engle had an unofficial club too, although hers was quite a bit more elite than my college days.  Her stories are filled with the mythical names of vibrant New York theater, she had dinner parties with names I only knew as legends from classes. Like my group though, hers was in the off and on hours, gathered around a piano in a small apartment, backstage in the theater, in Greenwich Village where dreams were being followed and lost.

At that time I thought of those around me and I couldn’t name one potential member in my little world of mama friends. I’d left them all 12 hours behind. Instead I was the new mom who heard often from friends “Oh you’re so creative.” I didn’t really want that moniker, I wanted to hear “Let me tell you about this idea I had, the movie I saw, this book I want to write.”  I wanted a fellow creator, not a reminder of how alien it felt to be me.

My husband was the only one in my club and thank goodness for him.  A graphic designer, a painter, a drawer, a lover of films, I think I would have continued splicing myself without at least his passion allowing my fire to stay lit.  When I did get ideas, though not nearly as often as before, he said, “Go.”

“Go write, go make frames, go see the play.”

“Your ideas are great.  Yes, take photos for money, I’ll watch the kids.  Yes, writing is important let me design your blog.”

Eventually, L’engle’s dinner parties lingering as a reminder of what was lost, I decided to make something happen.  Mr. Darcy and I put our hand to leading a group through a creative focused Bible study, which lead us to other people who were just as stuck. I found I really didn’t want to lead a group, just be among people who got more excited about creating something from nothing than excel spreadsheets and football(yes, I know there are those of you out there who would be in my club AND breakdown a budget while watching Sunday’s game).

In this lonely time, I found out a few things about myself.  Creativity isn’t a hobby added on, when I’m doing it I feel better fitted into my skin and spirit.  For the longest time I couldn’t figure out how it fit into my “new” life, I couldn’t blend the shades.   I’ve learned to recognize the restlessness when I haven’t done something with my hands or with words, it only takes an hour of writing or making a collage to find order and peace.  I can see why L’engle compared writing to praying.

My world has grown-a little.  I have a close friend who loves to write, who understands the need to create and be a full-time mama at the same time.  I have kids who get out their sketchbooks almost daily.

“Mommy, ask me if I’d rather a)sketch b)eat chocolate or c)play Webkins. A-sketch, I just want to do it all the time!”

Our walls are adorned with family originals.  They beg me to write stories with them, to create radio dramas.  It’s a gift and an affirmation to have motherhood and artistry naturally blended into a day.

It’s a small club.  I’d like to see it grow.  I hear about artists who live isolated lives and maybe they don’t need the energy found in shared passions, but as for me, I’ll take the club.  I’m leaving the door open.  T-shirt anyone?