Adam Blatner

I have of late encountered a series of experiences that have delivered a reassuring and startling message: There are many who carry on the work of creativity, and many who are doing so in ways that are more refined, more radical, more elaborate, more whatever than me! A small and not-to-be-honored egocentric part begrudges them: “Kids today, hmpf!” But a bigger part of me celebrates them! “Yes! You go! This is great stuff!” (and better than I can do).

One of these pioneers is the work of the psychiatrist Dan Siegel and his integration of brain science and dynamic psychology—“interpersonal neurobiology.” Another is the work of “animusic”—a new form of computer graphic cartoon that takes Walt Disney’s efforts in the direction of Fantasia to new heights. I have several friends who are doing other stuff: Jeff Hoke’s “Museum of Lost Wonder” explores harmonies and archetypes in novel ways, and Lynclaire Dennis’ “Mereon” does it yet in another way. Now a trend entitled “Developmental Transformations” has emerged out of the field of Drama Therapy and extends my own work in the Art of Play further.

Meanwhile, I notice that in several ways I’m getting slightly older and some things aren’t working as well—“senior moments,” they call it euphemistically. I couldn’t immediately recall my last cat’s name (she died 15 years ago)—but that was a shocker. The cosmos is conspiring: I call it “pro-noia”—it’s not paranoid, but rather the faith-filled feeling that they’re trying to get me enlightened and happy. I surrender to this, or try to re-orient my mind so I can do so.

It’s not that I’m not sharp and productive. Another friend hosts my riffs on various topics and I’m honored. I expect that this productivity will continue and the quality will remain high. It’s just that I can’t get away with harboring a secret, subconscious expectation that all this will go on forever

The sage bush in our front yard has grown old and so scraggly with dead branches in the lower sections that we cut it down. Bushes growing old?! And this called my attention to the presence — really, a not uncommon occurrence— of old dead trees, and scraggly old trees with just a few branches of green among the young flourishing ones in the woods around our home. I hadn’t noticed them before. Wow! (Uncle Bud—my name for the guardian angel who translates to me more explicitly what the platoon of my guardian angels (yes, it takes a platoon, or a village) has in store for me.) Getting older!!