The Shoe Fits Perfectly • by Jeanine Caron

I’m sitting in a patch of heather at the foothills of the Cairngorms of Scotland. The porridge is about to come to a boil, the midgies (one-tenth the size of a mosquito but three times more ferocious) are attacking every bit of exposed flesh and gauging by the thick clouds hovering over the mountains, rain is not too far away. It appears that I have chosen this moment, a mere three hours before my submission deadline (though I was given three months) to write about what art means to me. If artists are, indeed, the stereotypical type-B personalities people claim they are… then this shoe fits me ever so perfectly.

However, I never really thought of myself as a creative person. I nearly flunked art class and spent most of my school days (and summer vacation) with my head in the books — science, math, biology, and Stephen King thrillers, the last of which only served to fill my young mind with visions of horror that would (and continue to) give me the creeps at the strangest moments.

Tapping into my Creative Self
Indeed, it is not too long ago that I started tapping into my creative self. Although my mother would beg to differ and be the first to tell you about that time the bishop read a letter I’d written to him in fifth grade. Out loud. To the entire congregation. He said he’d received many letters from thousands of children around the province but one struck him in particular and he felt compelled to share it. I do not recall what I wrote in that letter, I don’t remember it being particularly noteworthy or eloquent, but my mother has been convinced ever since that I should pursue a career in writing. Sadly, I never did. And still haven’t. I am plagued (like many other creatives, I suspect) that I don’t have what it takes, that it’s already been said a thousand times and a thousand times better, that proper writers surely go to school and study Journalism or Literature, not Applied Zoology.

And yet, I write. I write for myself because I can’t help it. It’s an itch that I need to scratch. I write because I want to revisit my life and tap into a distant memory to get that feeling again. Other times, the memory comes flooding in on a whiff of caramel and demands that I tell its story. Sometimes, I just need to see my emotions on paper, in letters and words and paragraphs, and then the problems don’t seem as big as they are when floating around my head. Writing is the dust feather that clears the cobwebs. Writing is my breath, my exorcism, it is sound, it is color. When I write, the words don’t get stuck in my throat the way they do when I speak. I can express myself freely. The written page is safe. It is sanctuary. And so, I write.

Finding my Way Home
And then there’s photography, my other passion. Photography comes in when the words run dry. When I can’t possibly describe what it is I am seeing. Or when I don’t want to. Sometimes words are too noisy and the observer simply needs an image to sink into. I’ve come a long way since picking up my first camera — a little pink plastic piece from the ‘80s. I’ve dipped into the digital world, have processed my photos beyond recognition, and have recently found my way back to film photography. When I’m out there with my Pentax, seeking beauty in my surroundings (which is everywhere, I assure you), everything dissolves. Disappears. Quiets. Until the shutter clicks.

I can’t imagine my life without a pen, a notebook, and a camera. These tools help me escape and find my way home, all at once. So I suppose I am a creative person after all.

The midgies are in full swing. The honey whiskey porridge is gone. It’s time to pack up the tent and go explore the Isle of Skye. Won't you join me on my wanderings?

To learn more about Jeanine Caron, visit wonderingsandwanderings.wordpress.com.