The Story Behind the Story - Part 3

I climb up the stairs of what was once an old apartment in Northwest Portland. Each creaking step leads me closer to the intoxicating aroma that can only be found in a house fitted with an entire wall of tea. I breathe in the familiar smell, feeling as if the creative magic is already happening. Opening the door at the top of the stairs, the scent hits me full force. Sweet, inspiring, drinkable perfume! I think to myself. It's impossible for me to enter this space and not smile.

"Coconut maté latte?" The girl behind the counter at Tea Chai Té asks, smirking in her knowing-ness.
"How'd you know?" I say, facetiously. I hand her my stamp card.
"Last one," she says. "Looks like you get this one for free."
"Sweet!"
"Pot or mug?"
"Pot, I'll be here for awhile."
"Sitting outside?" She asks, though she already knows the answer. Of course I am sitting outside.

Outside on the balcony at a too-small table in a wobbly chair is where I find my writing zen. Northwest 23rd bustles with shoppers and dog-walkers who are interesting enough to provide an occasional moments rest away from the screen, but not so much that I get distracted. I put in my headphones and turn on Bon Iver -- the only music with lyrics that I can write too. Otherwise it's my film score station on Pandora. Both options seem to waft easily between background noise and muse-like inspiration. Sometimes, there are moments as I'm writing when I feel as if the music has been written for this exact moment in time, as if Bon Iver or Howard Shore have seen my sentences before even me, and have written the soundtrack for them.

Delusions of grandeur aside, I put my fingers to the keyboard, and the story begins unfolding. Choppy and stumbling at first, it soon begins to flow. The maté, the music, the wobbly chair, and I all work together to enter that state of freedom that can best be described as taking flight. Not in a plane, but as a winged creature set free from a cage.

This thought leads me to the next: What is my cage? What is your cage? What is keeping me, or you, from flying freely in a state of creative impulse and utter joy? I push that thought away for another time, and turn my attention back to the page.

I write and I write. The sun is low enough now that the buildings on the opposite side of the street are now silhouettes. I look at the clock. Tea Chai Té will be closing soon. My coconut maté latte has long-since transformed into a cold sludge of soggy leaves. The window of creative energy is closing, and my inner Artist is tired. The kind of tired one feels after a productive yet satisfying day.

It is time for this bird to land, for tomorrow I must face the proverbial cage.