Last weekend, we went looking for a troll for our 30th Annivesary.
Not an internet troll. A very large, much more charming, wooden one.
We visited Pia the Peacekeeper, one of Thomas Dambo’s Northwest Trolls, and along the way my husband unexpectedly pulled out a Professor Quirrell impersonation/callback that made the whole adventure even better.
“Troll! There’s a troll in the dungeon! I thought you ought to know.”
It was exactly the kind of outing I love: a little walking, a little exploring, something unusual to discover, and plenty to laugh about.
And it turned out to be particularly good timing.
The days afterward became much more serious. My dad had a significant health decline, and our family has now brought in hospice care.
That’s about all I want to say about that here, except that it means I’m giving myself a little more breathing room for the next couple of weeks.
I’m taking a brief break from my usual podcast schedule, and when Growing Our Gifts returns, I’m going to change the order of the next few episodes. I had planned to talk about nourishing our creativity next, but first I want to talk about support—the people who help us keep growing when we don’t have the capacity to do everything ourselves.
Because something I’ve noticed over the past week is that my creativity hasn’t disappeared.
I’ve walked.
I’ve journaled.
I’ve listened to podcasts.
I’ve rested.
I’ve spent time with people I love.
I’ve laughed at unexpected Professor Quirrell impersonations and visited giant trolls.
And, in the middle of several very difficult days, I found twenty minutes to sit down with my book again.
It wasn’t a full writing day. It wasn’t supposed to be.
It was just twenty minutes of revising, remembering the story, and finding my way back into that creative space.
Sometimes growing our gifts means putting in the hours.
Sometimes it means learning, practicing, revising, and stretching ourselves.
And sometimes, I think, it means keeping a tiny bit of space open for creativity while the rest of our lives need our attention.
The gift doesn’t disappear because we’re resting.
It doesn’t disappear because we’re grieving or caregiving or simply tired.
Sometimes it’s still there, growing quietly.
And sometimes you find it again while walking through the woods looking for a troll.
