March 21st, 2012 
Maria Helm 
Katherine Hepburn whiled away the long stretches on movie sets by knitting. After putting down her pen, novelist Marjorie Rawlings cooked up plots as she baked pies. Queen Victoria filled dozens of sketchbooks with charming watercolors of her children when not ruling an empire.
But the children call to us. The house calls to us. The work calls to us. When, then, does the poem or the painting call to us?
Probably everyday. But we’re too busy listening to everyone else instead of our selves. Maybe it’s because we’ve convinced ourselves that we really don’t have the time for personal pursuits that bring us happiness if they take longer than fifteen minutes. Perhaps we don’t hear the whispers of longing because we don’t want to hear. If we hear, we might have to acknowledge, even respond. We;re afraid to hear the the promptings of the person who wants to learn how to draw, dance, raise orchids, cook Szechuan. We might have to take a class or buy a pad and pencils, a plant, a fabric, or hoisin sauce. No time to be passionate, we have to be practical. Essential, uncompromisable longing will have to wait until there’s more time; when the children are back in school, when Mom’s feeling better, when things let up at the office.
How about an answer we haven’t heard before? How about, “My true passions will have to wait until I’m ready to admit that pursuing them is essential for my happiness?” How about, “I haven’t learned yet how to put myself on the list of priorities?” Notice I didn’t suggest putting yourself first; I just want to get you on the list.
Space and time to nurture our creativity may be one of our true hungers. Perhaps we think that only food, drink, work, sex, shopping, or pills can reduce the gnawing to a dull throb. But maybe if we took an hour a day to paint, to plot, or to throw pots we wouldn’t be in pain – physical or psychological.
Just maybe.
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