What do you listen to while you work?
While I was actually working, although I never called it work, because I thought of it as a vocation, I listened to the complaints of the administration (often about my way of work). I also listened to my students (all too often their complaints about the system and the way they were being taught and treated). And then I listened to the problems that were daily laid before me in my office by these same students. These, problems and students, were many and varied. One day, I designed a label for my door that announced: Office of Creative Solutions. And yes, I provided many innovative and creative solutions to problems that, to young people, especially my students, seemed almost impossible to resolve.
Then I retired. At least, like an ageing horse, or an unwanted donkey, I was put out to grass. And in that clover-filled meadow, I grazed at leisure and worked no more. But I did have time to write and so I became a creative writer. At first, when I started creative writing, I forced my characters into the roles that I had chosen for them. Sometimes they complained. Then, one day, or maybe it was one night when I was dreaming, a host of my characters, minor and major, came knocking on my door. They carried a big arrow that had, written upon it, Office of Creative Solutions. They pointed it at me and began to complain about how I was treating them. I remembered the poem I had memorized as a child – The owl, he was a wise old bird, the more he spoke, the less he heard. The less he spoke, the more he heard. There never was such a wise old bird.
I remembered how I had listened to my students and how, by listening, I managed to find creative solutions to their problems. So, I listened to those characters as they yammered away. One by one, they told me their woes, and their problems. Then, the following day, I rewrote everything I had written previously and wrote the stories down in their own words, instead of mine. When I listened to them, I allowed my characters to tell their own stories, and to speak for me and through me.
Sometimes, when I run out of voices that come in the night and tell me what to say, I cannot write. Then I take a paint brush, and I start to paint. What do I listen to when I paint? I listen to the brush as it moves itself over the canvas. I listen to the colors as they demand attention and tell me where to place them. I listen to the paint as it says ‘just here, not too thick, not too thin, a swirl please, gently now.”
Now, when I am not working, I listen to flowers, trees, the wind in the willows, the songs of the falling leaves, and the voices of birds.
rogermoorepoet 