Creative Thinkers

Continuing our celebration of National Poetry Month, we welcome guest blogger Sandra Bernard. Sandra is a Newaygo singer-songwriter, poet, essayist, producer of musicals and one-of-a-kind free spirit who leads the weekly open mic at River Stop Café. For several years, she also led a weekly writing salon to encourage and mentor local writers. Sandra comes from a long line of creative and gifted musicians, writers and artists. She has collected some of her family's stories, photos, poems and recipes in her book, You Are What You're Fed.  

​Here's Sandra, sharing her thoughts and three of her poems . . .  

Sandra Bernard

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​That old adage, you don’t know what you got 'til it’s gone, never applied to my life—never!!
 
My life has been a deluge of interesting characters: inventor/dreamer types, accomplished painters, writers, and musicians who embrace eyebrow-raising, good or bad, and wear it like a badge of courage. From a master water colorist who could twist the English language into wordy, witty tales as easily as he painted sadness into an array of clear blue vases on a paper canvas, to storytellers who ran hooch for Al Capone and outran the law in the Kentucky hills, to those who played fiddle tunes and sang hair-raising hill harmonies in five mystical parts. 

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Sandra (left) in her free-spirited youth

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​As far back as I can remember, such gifts were celebrated, applauded and enjoyed to their fullest in my family. I've always been grateful to, and respectful of, those who taught me how to succumb to that kind of pleasure and cleared the way for creative thinking and inspired daring.

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​But star-gazing, humor-dipping and word-weaving, while wildly inviting, all have their downside. Clearly, creativity mixed with daring is not conducive to long-term relationships. Oh yeah, in the short-term maybe they're exciting, but only until the reality of the dark side of the moon reaches its rope's end, on both ends. You’re not likely to find breadwinners more than one time out of ten thousand. There will be a lot of mood swings and job changes. Creative thinkers require an inordinate amount of alone time, which tends to stick in the craw of most spouses. Three weeks of intense silence will produce two pages of writing, which may or may not be worthy of print. Balancing checkbooks and paying bills will more likely feel like a punishment than a necessity.

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Sandra on stage

​While they're often labeled as lazy, unorganized and incapable of managing time or prioritizing "normally," these are only symptoms of an underlying obsession of thoughts and fixation. Day and night the mind runs at warp speed and the least little thing said or done can inspire a whole chapter, song, or painting in a three-hour period. (For writers, that constitutes three months of rewrite time and years of collective dissecting in the mental lab.) Eating is not a priority.  Sleeping can be sporadic, with sudden spurts of genius at three am. Yes, spouses of the creative don’t know what's gone till they’ve got it.  

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It's a kind of sadomasochistic life, dotted with power surges and self-loathing for being incapable of staying in the lane. But as the years have passed, it seems I've somehow grown into that skin with a little grace, I hope. I’ve learned how to rein it in a little on the outside, while still harvesting the fruits of my inward madness. Aging allows others to accept and almost expect eccentricity, and that’s good for me. 

​It's working out, for the most part. Romance has gone by the wayside, but that's probably for the best. As a parent, watching my children struggle through creative mine-fields is about the only time any regret seeps in. But then they paint a painting, or sing a song, or write a lyric that reveals the depth of their spirit, and regret swiftly springs into pride and admiration. Learning to dance like no one's watching is embedded very early in life, maybe even through the gene pool and from the womb, but when encouraged and licensed in life it can create moments that sparkle as bright as the sun and light the entire vicinity on which they fall. 

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​Oh yes, I did know what I had when I had it, and I'm thankful for that.

If I Should Fall Asleep
 
The body turns, it cannot rest
When you’re too tired to go forward
You just start looking back
 
Good mother West . . . one more setting sun
So many things I shouldn't have
And more I should have done
 
Just lie down here by me now
You don't need to speak
I just don't want to be alone
If I should fall asleep
 
But if I've gone before you wake
Don't let your heart be shattered
For I'll be traveling beyond the stars
Far past those things that mattered
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The Photos at Wright's Gallery
 
A photo of a child's weather-beaten toy
At the edge of an overgrown pond
And one with a child's half eaten cereal in a bowl
Left on the steps all alone
They were dark and filled with a sad lonely view
The kind no one can defend
Photographs of an unclaimed boy
Showed at Wright's Gallery at ten
 
There was one with an empty baby pram
Off to the side in the weeds
But the icy cold bridge
Where someone's clothes lay
I almost couldn't breathe
They were dark and filled with a sad lonely view
The kind no one can defend
Photographs of an unclaimed boy
Showed at Wright's Gallery at ten
 
Awards and accolades were dispensed
And curious people called it art
But I knew they were only photographs
Of a small boy's broken heart
They were dark and filled with a sad lonely view
The kind no one can defend
Photographs of an unclaimed boy
Showed at Wright's Gallery at ten 
 

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​Mantra
 
There are no lines
Only circles
I believe that
We pretend that things begin and end
But they never do
Thus good is part of bad
Bad part of good
And there is no dark without light
And vice versa
 
Watch the water go to ice
Ice to liquid—liquid to gas
Back to water again
Like love . . . hate . . . and forgiveness
Perhaps one state more desirable than the other
From this eye
 
But the eye is a circle
The heart is a circle
Dreams are circles
What we wanted and needed then and now
From different views
We only pretend that things begin and end
 
. . . But there are no lines
                                            Only circles . . .
                                                                        . . . I believe that

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