The village of Amarach sat on the edge of a rustling forest of fragrant eucalyptus trees. Amarach had been inhabited by artists and creatives for six generations and had a history of lively art making and play. However, in recent years the young creatives had left Amarach for the cities and only the older artisans had stayed. Artistic life was dying and many of the older villagers gave very good excuses for their opting out or retiring from creative life.
There was a man with arthritis in his fingers. He said that he could not paint any more because he had lost fluidity and movement in his hands.
There was a woman with broken ankles who used a wheelchair to get around. She said it was too much effort to get to her studio to make her sculptures. Since she had lost her mobility, she explained, she couldn’t get moving and motivate herself to be creative.
There was a blind woman who said she could not see any more and so she could no longer make her pottery.
All these people had impairments that kept them from their creative lives but they all held onto the memories of their artistic exploits and often brought their creations to mind and smiled when they remembered their innovative and imaginative acts.
But there was one villager who was more impaired than all the others, a villager who could no longer bring his past creations to mind or see a way forward to creating something tomorrow. This villager had a broken heart. When asked why he had stopped creating, he looked quizzically asking, “what is creativity?”
The burden of wings 