I once had a lover who jumped into skips

Madly in love, our hands intertwined, we strolled through the mystical twilight streets of The Hague.

Every now and then, we’d encounter a skip, waiting for demolition waste to fill its hungry belly, and staring silently at us.

My hero would rush toward the skip and before I knew it, he’d dived into it. Carefully, he pushed aside pieces of drywall as if they were Mikado sticks, and after a few minutes he stood, his exuberant curls covered in rubble, in front of me holding the most stunning treasures.

Designer office chairs which were missing a wheel, deep blue Kvadrat fabrics, practical tools – as if he didn’t already have them – beautiful wallpaper, jewelry, coffee machines, antique books and photo albums, and very expensive handmade designer shoes.

I kid you not.

This man had a knack for finding things. Beautiful things, because he had an exquisite taste.

I suspect he was an alchemist. He didn’t see it himself. He followed his intuition because he had no other choice. As if he was powered by an inner, crystal-clear lightning bolt.

We understood each other without words.

For I too am a treasure hunter, a collector of experiences, a gatherer of memories, a picker of things. Everything that is of added value to my art journal slips into my pockets. Candy wrappers, pieces of lace, shells, beer caps and coasters, labels, stones. I’ll take it all.

Recently, I went to Lisbon.

While strolling through tiny alleys that didn’t feature in my tourist guide (these are the best), my eye suddenly fell on a tiny shop with an intriguing shop window bursting with old lace, nostalgic rope tie backs, crocheted potholders and other antique accessories. The charming little place was wedged between two rickety, empty buildings and enticed me with its quirkiness.

Oooooh, my astonished, artistic heart exulted.

On the handwritten card in the window, I read that the shop would be closing in half an hour. I was just in time. I rushed in, as if stung by a wasp. Behind the counter stood a sprightly, small, wrinkled lady, who seemed to have come straight out of a fairy tale book. The shop was so small that exactly one customer could enter. I was that customer.

I stared, dumbfounded, at the endless rows of lace, neatly wrapped in transparent plastic, beautifying the drab back wall.

“The factory went bankrupt,” the lady rattles in broken English as she sorts the samples by color. “What is here is no longer available anywhere else.”

She turns and looks at me, a little sadly. 

My heart fills with sorrowful tears. I feel her grief. I too strongly resist the fading of the traditional richness that was once the norm and that is being washed away so quickly by the plastic tat from China.

In our glances, we exchange these same sentiments, and our relationship seems to last for hours instead of only the few seconds that I’m standing there, and we realize that time doesn’t exist in this opulent place where craft and attention are the only ingredients that matter.

After 30 minutes, I’m standing outside, whistling, with a bag loaded with old lace, elegant rope tie backs, artfully crocheted potholders, and dusty magazines full of forgotten crochet and knitting patterns.

What a delight. This is the creative life that makes me so happy. All that emerges at the most unexpected moment, and adds something effervescent to the day. I consider myself a lucky person.

It happens to me regularly, but only if I surrender to it. I have to let go of control.

Once, I was with Mr. Lover-Lover (the man who jumps into skips) in Berlin. We discovered a shop bursting with buttons from the fifties, sixties, and seventies.

Ohmygoodness.

Buttons from old-fashioned Marine costumes, next to delicate buttons that once embellished long frivolous dresses from cabaret shows. Buttons that would make Mary Quant jealous. Within an hour, the owner Paul had invited us for a Milchkaffee with Berlinerbollen and we found ourselves in the outmoded kitchen at the back of the store. I love this kind of thing. Conversations with the person behind the spectacle. Well, I admit it, I’m not only a creative, greedy thing, but also a curious sleuth.

If I didn’t do what I’m doing now, I’m pretty sure I would have become Sherlock Holmes.

Actually, I am Sherlock Holmes. I search, dig, and find that which makes my heart yodel.

What about you?

Do you rely on your creative muse or is your systematic mind the decision-maker in your life? Do you dare to deviate from the beaten path and sail on a sea where raging waves rule and obscure your view? Where you know deep down that the rainbow will eventually show itself again?

Will you listen to the soft, honey-sweet whispering of your muse? Or will you obey the screeching dragon that throws fiery obstacles into your path? The dragon doesn’t serve you. Not now, not ever.

I hope you will choose the muse.

But… that might be pretty scary. 
Because where do you start? 
How do you start? 
What kind of materials do you need? 
Perhaps you don’t want to do it all alone, but together with others.
Exploring the creative hiking trail, strolling hand in hand, drawing, concentrating, tasting in amazement everything you encounter along the way.

Does that sound like something you fancy?

Close your eyes and prick up your ears.

Can you hear the voice of your muse? Her lovely murmur is soft but crystal clear. 
“Go. Clear your head and do what you’ve long dreamed of. There’s so much beauty waiting for you. I promise you, I am the warrior at your side. ”

You got this.

With sparkles, 
Marenthe 💞