Creativity

There is something about creativity that drives me to create. I just watched this fantastic movie called "once" about two singer-song writers in Ireland. It is basically a movie about creating- creating songs, love, life, hope, gifts. As I watched it, I just wanted to hit "pause" and go and take pictures, write a story or something- make something.
It is weird how creativity makes me want to create. I see something beautiful, something unique and it makes me want to go and make something that shows my mood, my hopes.
I think it is because creativity points to hope- it shows that there can be beauty here in this broken world, it shows that there is something important here, something worth time, energy and space.
I think it is great- it makes me want to paint, to sing, to write, to take the best photos- it makes me want to scream, "Yes, we have hope! We have a reason to create- a reason to be hopeful!"
And this is what I wrote:
The stairs leading down to the Balad are steep and many. If you look up from the uneven steps, you will see the huge Jordanian flag swaying in the cold breeze. Carefully we make our way down, avoiding the ice. It is a jostling journey, watching your steps all the way. We pass an old woman trying to make her way up these grueling steps with the help of her son and her grandson. With each step she screams “Ya Allah!” (Oh God) and her grandson laughs because it sounds very similar to “yellah” (hurry up) ironic considering her slow pace. We enter the street, inclining down to the city center with its slick pavement.
The mountains, stacked to their rim with houses, seem to stand at attention, guarding the Balad. The hills rise all around us, hills that have been inhabited since the days of King David and probably even before that. Above us towers the great citadel; we are walking on the very ground where Uriah the Hittite lost his life. In front of us, the great amphitheater built when Rome was the super power of the world. People have visited this valley for hundreds of years and today we are drawn to be a part of its story.
We begin to pass little stores packed with shower curtains, bath mats and towels. The traffic begins to increase as we descend. We get to the DVD section, store after store packed with illegal DVDs for sale. Music blares from the CD stores that are mixed in intermittently. People mill around, looking for various riches.
We continue to journey down through the labyrinth of stores, accosted by the items for sale. At every turn there are scarves, hats and gloves for sale. These are mixed with cell phones, perfume and gold rings. People are inviting us into their stores, allowing us to “look for free.” We stop occasionally, drawn in by some beautiful hand-made pashmina, a Jordanian headdress or a movie that we have wanted to see.
We take our time, the Balad is no place to rush. Every alley has to be examined, every kiosk enjoyed. The adventure of shopping becomes a reality down here; we are like pirates looking for our treasure.
We pass the restaurants that give new meaning to “hole in the wall.” We see the men crowed in the storefronts drinking tea or smoking sheesha. Everyone seems to be enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. The energy is contagious, enlivening even the air that we breathe.
We have all that we came for, but we march on into its belly. Traffic is thick now and the horns are blowing loudly. People stand in the street awaiting empty taxis, buses creep by stuffed full of men, women and children.
Arabic banters around us as we crawl deeper into the lair. Culture seems to have a personality here; you can feel civilization brush by you. And yet, somehow I do not feel like a stranger, but as one who has returned after a long absence.
The sun begins to set and the cold walks back in. It is time to go. I feel the Balad release its grip. We cross the street and join the throng waiting for a taxi. We ignore the cold and stand in silence, our eyes filled with images.
We leave, ascending the hill as if being awakened from a dream. Normal life awaits us at the top of the hill and already I miss life in the Balad.