(Today's post is in celebration of National B & B Day--at least in Great Britain. Cheers! J)
Travel. Through the years Rice and I have enjoyed plenty of getaways, near and far. My earliest memories of travel as a newlywed involved stays at motels and motor lodges. Our honeymoon included several nights in Paradise, Michigan. The “paradise” part sounded so romantic to this young bride. We stayed at Curley’s Motel. Google it. It’s still there. It also appears to have the same furnishings as it did in July 1979. It kept us sheltered, though, as did another motor lodge we stayed at, this time in Normal, Illinois. We had visited old friends there from Rice’s alma mater. Upon packing prior to checkout, I peeked under the bed to make sure I hadn’t accidentally left any shoes or unmentionables. Surprise, surprise. I found an unmentionable a previous guest or staffer had left. It was a bong—a BIG bong—which research tells me is a filtration device frequently used for smoking cannabis. Another amazing memory. As our income improved and our family grew, we started opting for stays at The Holiday Inn or The Embassy Suites. On special occasions, though, when it was just Rice and me, we often liked to stay at what I call a traditional bed and breakfast or inn. This is different from the now popular AirBnB, which we’ve also used. A traditional bed and breakfast inn offers just that—bed AND breakfast, usually prepared by and shared with the host, who is onsite. Recently, I asked Rice to reminisce with me about some of our bed and breakfast adventures. I suggested that I’d name an inn and its location, and he’d give me a one- or two-word description of the memory it brought to mind. To start, I said, “Gables Inn, Santa Rosa, California.” Rice’s reply: “Happy hour!” Immediately, I was taken back to our visit to wine country, staying in a sprawling country inn, and joining the host, Mike, for breakfast in the morning, and for wine and cheese and conversation when he rang the cow bell for the daily 4 o’clock happy hour. Let me give you another one: “Briar Rose Inn, Boulder, Colorado.” Rice’s reply: “Buddhists!” With that one word, I was whisked back to a peaceful stay at an inn run by Zen Buddhists who cut the lawn with human-powered mowers and dished up delicious organic breakfasts. Plenty of flax seeds; no bacon. For our third round, I said to Rice, “Rippon Kinsella Inn, Springfield, Illinois.” “Decrepit,” he replied. “The facility or the innkeepers?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. Our stay at the Rippon Kinsella was indeed disappointing—and a bit sad. When we booked it, it was because it reminded us of one of our best bed and breakfast stays ever—at the Annapolis Inn, in Annapolis, Maryland. On the surface, these two inns had so much in common. Both are historic Victorian homes located on tree-lined streets. Both are appointed with period antiques and serve three-course breakfasts. Both are located in U.S. capital cities. The similarities end there, though. The Annapolis Inn was luxurious. It had Italian linens, heated towel racks, and a therapy spa tub. Its owners served a different breakfast daily on fine china and dished up vibrant, sassy, entertaining stories. Rippon Kinsella was, well, decrepit. It had mismatched sheets, thread-bare towels, and a shower that barely trickled. Its owners served the same breakfast and dished up a rehashed conversation two days in a row. I got the sense that they were just plum tired. These days I confess that I like lush lodgings. I adore a bed and breakfast, but only if it offers accommodating accommodations. Sometimes the tried and true is the safest bet. There’s always The Hampton Inn, which Rice describes as ubiquitous—or ever-present. Just please don’t suggest a return trip to Curley’s Motel. One visit was enough—even if Rice’s description remains sweet: “Utter bliss.”
(Today's post and illustration is in honor of "National Fairy Tale Day." Enjoy!)
In the beginning, there was the Mother Muse, the goddess of creation, memory, nature, healing, love, poetry, and all things divine. According to legend, she bore nine daughters, each with her own special attribute, at the foot of Mt. Olympus, sired by the king of gods, Zeus. These daughters make up the Muses of Mythology, the inspiration for those who excel in the arts and sciences, some believe even to this day.
Protégées of the Muses are said to include the Sphinx, who learned her riddle from them, and Aristaeus, who owed them for her artful skills of healing and prophecy. Upon the birth of the Muses, some men, so elated by their presence, sang constantly, forgetting to eat or drink until they perished, turning to locusts who sing continuously with no need for sustenance.
The Muses were much revered, and Mt. Helicon became a sacred place of homage to them, where sacrifices of water, milk and honey were made. Apollo taught them to sing, and Athena caught and tamed the wild horse Pegasus as a gift to them. Yet like many sisters throughout time, the Muses could be competitive, even vindictive. Folklore has it that after winning a musical contest with Thamyris, the Muses robbed him of his eyes as well as his ability to make song. Other musical contests found them turning those they defeated into birds. After they out sang the Sirens, they plucked out their feathers to make crowns of them.
Their most volatile competition, however, is little heard of, as they swore one another to secrecy at the shame they felt at its outcome. In their later years, when they feared their power to inspire and protect was weakening, the Mother Muse bestowed upon them a gift—a beautiful silk purse of many colors. Mother Muse warned that her daughters must wait a fortnight, and then open the purse at twilight.
Curious and ever competitive, the Muses speculated about what kind of gift the purse contained. Each was sure the gift would enhance her own inspirational attribute, and they argued over which quality would dominate. Would it be history or melodic music? Comedy or tragedy? Perhaps it would be dance or love poetry. Divine hymns or astronomy. Or maybe the purse’s contents would enhance the gift of epic storytelling.
The nature of the Muses’ argument turned from contemplative to physical, and they tugged at the purse, arguing not only about what it contained, but about which of them should guard it. As they tugged and pulled and argued, alas, the purse ripped to shreds, and the contents spilled out. There at the foot of the mount, nine sparkling jewels rolled past their feet, disappearing into the flora and fauna that surrounded them.
Heartbroken, the sisters confessed to the Mother Muse what had happened. Angry at their selfishness, the Mother Muse never told them that the jewels were really eggs that in a fortnight would hatch into tiny glistening dragonfly-like creatures. Called Musements, they would fly about, dusting the gifts of the original Muses onto those who braved the lonely places one must go to create. The sisters never knew the Musements existed, but in a tribute to her daughters’ honesty, the Mother Muse bestowed upon the Musements the gift of proliferation.
It is said that the Musements live on today, inviting creative souls to push their limits, to craft and hone their best works. Ever playful, they dare us to find them—in the sparkle of asphalt, the twinkle of water, among the frolicking fireflies flitting about on a summer evening. The spark we see may be a dew drop atop a blade of grass, a tear streaming down a child’s face—or it may be a Musement inviting us to be still, to focus, to seek inspiration from within and beyond ourselves through the endless bounties of our world.
Former journalist Bill Moyers is credited with saying, “Creativity is piercing the mundane to find the marvelous.” Steven Jobs, the late CEO of Apple, put another spin on it when he said, "Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn't really do it, they just saw something.”
Here’s my take on it: I love connecting things! It can energize me…or calm me. Certainly it provides me with a sense of well-being and personal growth. One of the favorite parts of my job as a nonprofit fundraiser is the connective aspect of sharing client stories in ways that I hope can resonate with potential funders.
Yet more and more, today’s funders want data and logic models and indicators and evaluation plans. The work world of the new millennium is focused on improving processes—and being able to prove it with data. Quality improvement … Lean … Six Sigma. These are data-driven processes for organizations to attain a measure of quality near perfection. There’s that word again: data. Apparently data matters.
The artist Picasso is attributed with saying, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” Boy, do I feel that! Especially in this world of data-mining. I feel the creative aspects of my day job being squeezed out constantly to make room for easier-to-measure data and metrics. Lucky for me I can choose how I spend my time outside work to pursue whatever creative outlets I’d like. Our children, though, do not have that choice. I worry for them. In these test-centric, extracurricular-crammed times, when’s a kid supposed to get creative?
Sir Kenneth Robinson raises this question more eloquently and with the data to back him. He’s written books about how creativity is undervalued and ignored in Western culture and our educational systems. Sir Ken’s talk entitled "Do Schools Kill Creativity?" has become the most watched TED talk of all time.
His concerns are backed by scientific studies. Dr. Kyung Hee Kim with William and Mary has been studying the decline in creativity in U.S. children for years. Her research links to studies surrounding the Torrance Tests of Creative Thinking (TTCT), an evidence-based, science-driven assessment created in the 1950s. Close to 3,000 individuals—or “Torrance kids”—have been part of the TTCT studies tracking creativity in the U.S. from the 1960s to the present.
And guess what? While America's IQ scores are on the rise, the country's scores on creative thinking have been declining since 1990. This is especially evident in younger children from kindergarten through sixth grade. Seems our ability to recite facts may be at an all-time high. But what about our passion and ability to ponder original ideas and make connections?
Creativity matters. But it involves taking risks. How different would today’s world be without the creative tenacity of Galileo, who was condemned for sharing astronomical findings that went against Catholic theology of the time? Or Hungarian physician Ignaz Semmelweis, who was fired for raising the notion that infections could be spread by germs on doctors’ hands? Or philosopher Giordano Bruno, who was burned at the stake for daring to propose that the universe might be infinite.
So here’s my wish for today’s children. May you continue to study your science and do your math, read your literature and mine that data. BUT…may you NEVER stop thinking differently out of fear of being ridiculed. May you NEVER lose your curiosity because you’re too busy being “taught to the tests” in school. And may you NEVER, EVER stop piercing the mundane to find the marvelous!
