I worry that if I stop and smell the flowers, a bee will go up my nose. That happened once to some kid I knew in elementary school. Not like that, but I’ve been stung now by more bees than I can count.
I was doing cartwheels in a park on a Sunday in the summer. That was my favorite day of the week back then. The damp grass felt nice on my feet. My head was pounding from the blood that had rushed to it while upside down.
I liked feeling my heart this way, because it was like my body beating in time with the music my family was playing in the background. Then, with my last cartwheel, my right foot landed on a bee.
Under the cover of darkness
I’ve started to ask people what song they would like to listen to before they die. I would listen to “Under Cover of Darkness,” by The Strokes. My dad used to play this song on those same Sundays.
He always whistled along to this one. A short portion of his song always stuck out, I thought he timed those three notes so perfectly. I could hear his whistle even when I was outside laying in the sun on the concrete.
I recently found out that those notes are actually a part of the song. Sometimes my dad was whistling in time with the whistle in the song, and sometimes he wasn’t. But when I listen to it now, it’s only him whistling in the other room again — just inside
my mind.
Breathing
I’ve been enjoying focusing on the way I interact with the world around me instead of focusing on creating within it.
I was listening to a podcast where the artist told the interviewer that, when he is feeling like he needs to reset and shift his focus, he finds places and activities where he can “breathe.” To him, breathing may allow for an eventual renewed creativity.
This breath analogy seems to be an intentional break. But it is achieved differently for every individual. I am learning to breathe by observing. I find that my ability to thoughtfully observe directly correlates with my ability to be present and my ability to be creative. It reminds me that I do not need to be constantly moving. This intentionality is helping me access the slowness that may only be natural when we are young. You must create opportunities for that shift.
Leaning in
My grandpa tried to teach me how to whistle once. I was sitting with him in the backyard of my old house on Birch Way. On the rusted bench with square holes in it, made by a faux woven metal.
Bees circled around us. I remember feeling close to them, they were experiencing the same moment with me. Perhaps they were taught to buzz by their own grandpas.
When I attempted my whistle, the bee closest to my face slid gently farther away while still hovering. I was annoyed I couldn’t make the satisfying, windy sound that my grandpa made seconds before. But I liked the sound of his song, it complimented the humming of the bees.
Now I am breathing. Trying again to learn to whistle. Reconnecting with the version of myself that was friends with the bees.
How do you breathe?
Sometimes, creating space to breathe involves bringing in creative partners who are in sync with your vision and know how to whistle along to the tune you’re hearing in your head.
If you’re looking for that kind of partner, connect with Mahalo and let’s breathe new life into fresh ideas — together.
