Practice Delight by Releasing Purpose

There’s a sort of weird fascination with squishing things in our fingers. For me, this morning, it was some off-brand dough clay that I bought for two bucks a bucket Before Covid.

I blame the pandemic for this fascination with squish.

I’ve spent a good portion of it void of sensations, floating above my body.

Over and over I’ve watched with detached fascination as my arm reaches (of its own volition) for another drink, chocolate, or fantasy novel. Just as that same arm brings comfort to my eyes in the form of thick blankets over my head, I’ve tried to disappear in the dark.

Like so many others in this New Year’s twilight, I now seek a way out of the darkness. I’ve promised myself, over and over, that I’d make room for creating. I have moments where my mind’s eye stretches for bright colors like the cacti on my dawn-tainted windowsill. 

I long to paint, to draw, to sing, to dance, to scratch white gouges into layers of color and texture and create… something.

That’s my hangup. That “something”.

Must always produce something: 

Something to share. 

Something to further the world.

Something others want. 

Fill a niche in the marketplace, find a demand, a need, a spot. Create a plan, a following, something WORTHWHILE because I must…

Contribute.

A few days ago, as a promise to “play” (another thing to tick off the list on my way to becoming an independent, well-rounded adult), I set up a table where I can stand and work. It’s under a lovely window with a view of

… our back parking lot. 

Nevermind the parking lot. 

I gathered my tools: 

“Pens, check. Paper scraps, cool. New Exacto knife, mat, stickers, wish I had some drawers, how big IS that space, anyway? What size drawers would fit? Where’s the tape measure? FOCUS DIANA, drawers can come later. Light, I need light…desk-lamp, check. No bulb. Shit.”

Downstairs for a bulb. Back upstairs.

“Bulb. check.” 

The resulting “creative” work space sat unused several days, accusingly empty. 

I finally inched my way sidelong to the mental place where, this morning, I took the two-dollar bucket to said table-of-accusation, and dumped out its tiny rainbow cans of promise. Nothing productive can happen with modeling dough, which, I suspect, is precisely what I need: 

Nothing productive. 

I inspecting the neglected dough, expecting nothing but crumbs, but, surprisingly, they seemed intact enough, if I could just get a lid off.

The white didn’t want to open, nor the pink, blue, or black. Finally, I uncapped a tiny can of glorious squishy green dough.

I tried to grab and pull the neon dough out, only to discover it’s too soft. I dug in more, my finger sinking to the first, second knuckle. I tensed, expecting something unpleasant, like goo under my fingernail. 

Instead, I was transfixed: by delight. 

Ok, maybe some goo, but not unpleasant. Just… goo. 

As the whole green glob popped out in a semi-unified mass, I stared out at the parking lot while my left hand kneaded the dough entirely without my direction. Much like a cat kneading a blanket.

Squish. Squish. Squeeze. Roll. Squish. 

I’ve so needed this kneading. 

My eyes shifted to the plants in the windowsill, where I was taken with the precision of the leaves. So many, in perfect replication, yet each different. Beautiful, plump, magically attached to their stems. My jaw moved – I could feel each crisp edge with my teeth, somehow tracing the lines in my mouth, and in concert, my thumb squishing the clay suddenly longed to trace those lines.

So I did.

Green dough became leaves, with minimal thought and maximum feeling. One, another, another. The first leaf, I explored the fold of a peperomia leaf seam. The next, my fingertips tingled as I pinched out the perfect little points of the foot-ball shaped leaf. The third, I spread the clay, attempting to mimic the thinness of the leaf’s tissue, and bravely spin an extra piece to form the graceful arching stem that attaches it with its neighbors. 

It’s a dance with wheat and corn starch. I worship the life on my windowsill, and with growing joy and waking fingers, bring my own life back. 

I dashed downstairs with the lump of green smoosh in my hands and handed it to my husband, sharing my delight at its smoothness, the ability to spread it paper-thin, and the slightly sweet smell of the clay. He obligingly nodded, took it in his hand, made a roll out of it, and handed it back, a bit puzzled, but smiling. 

I danced back up the stairs and gazed down at the little beginnings of a salad I’d created on my play table. 

Knowing they’re not permanent, just the outcome of experience, I got my phone out and photograph them. Blowing each tiny leaf into a full screen masterpiece, I can see something I didn’t notice before: my thumb ridges printed into the leaf surface. 

It seemed so smooth, yet when blown up, it’s as if the urgency of my tactile need printed itself into the surface of my creation.

I am pleased at this most of all: evidence, a memory of my delight. Of my moment of synching with the surrounding life, and opening to the delight of living. 

Releasing myself of purpose, of the need to create something lasting, has allowed me to rediscover delight. 

The leaves, complete with thumbprint, have now returned to the little can, all squished back into a lovely ball of goo.

The impermanence of those leaves has given me something to keep forever: that print of delight upon my soul. Something I can return to again and again, for nothing other than what it yields in the moment.

Somehow that feels more lasting and important than anything I have on a checklist.