I have always lived in quiet awe of the “creatives”—the poets who distill the soul into a stanza, the musicians who find the frequency of human longing, and the artists who capture light on a canvas. Recently, Maria Popova wrote about the delicate “creative act” of letting go and holding on, an interplay she defines as the Art of Aging. It is a beautiful sentiment, but sitting here after a week in the hospital, beauty feels a world away. I don’t feel like a poet; I feel like an offensive lineman, battered and bruised, playing through a deluge of rain and mud just to gain a few yards.
Popova’s reflections are filled with the voices of notable figures who met aging with a rhythmic grace, usually by doubling down on their creative output. But their wisdom often feels like it’s written for a different species. For those of us who are “Pluggers”—the ones lacking a signature talent or a hidden masterpiece waiting to emerge—the advice to “create” can feel like a secondary burden. I am not going to pick up a paintbrush at this stage, nor will I suddenly find the wind for a clarinet.
So, what remains for the Plugger in their latter years?
Perhaps the solution is to realize that creativity is not a one-way street; it is a conversation. If some are called to speak, others are called to listen, and that listening is its own form of grace. My “creative act” may not be the production of art, but the profound witnessing of it.
I can choose to surround myself with the brilliance of others—to let the symphonies of Beethoven and Mozart or the earthy wisdom of Carole King fill the room. I can walk the halls of museums to stand before the genius of Picasso and Leonardo, and then return home to find that same spark of divinity in the finger-paintings of my four-year-old granddaughter. I can lose myself in the clarity of Mary Oliver’s poetry, the weight of great prose, the timelessness of Shakespeare, and the biting wit of Trudeau or Breathed.
In the end, the “creative” in each of us does not require us to be the source. We are not just the players in the mud; we are the audience in the theater of the human spirit. To deeply love, to truly see, and to find resonance in the works of others is not a passive consolation prize—it is a participation in the divine. We do not have to hold the brush to be part of the painting. We simply have to keep our eyes open to the beauty that others have left behind for us to find.
Don’t sell yourself short. You display the creativity with your pen (or keyboard) the way the artist does with her brush or the composer with his keyboard.
Sorry to hear about your hospitalization. Praying you”re on the menu.
Thanks Te. On the mend. W.
Wow! One of your best Pews Webster-I’m definitely a plugger ha. Sorry you’re still in the hospital ☹️Hope you’re home soon!
Thanks JR. Home now. Recovering once again.
Simply beautiful!
Thank You!