Lately I am understanding more and more about this mysterious creative force that takes me, and yet, truly, I understand nothing. I know it uses me in ways I cannot comprehend. I know it takes my body and dances me.
Makes me write, makes me draw, makes me love.
It is Devine.
It moves within me, like the wind.
I saw the new Avatar movie, recently. It made me smile, because I recognised me. A girl who feels the world, who knows the earth, who breathes its song.
I suffer greatly for my sensitivity, at times, but it is also my greatest gift. My sweetest home.
The German Shepherd changed things. She considered revenge, but then, he had always nurtured a sick fantasy of being mistreated by women. How inconvenient life could be at times.
Still. He had known she would only consider small dogs, and so, it was absolute that he must pay. The unfortunate event would be dressed as an accident. She would smile politely as a fall occurred.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months without a glimpse of opportunity. No staircase to fumble him down, no veranda step to miss at the expense of his face. It was odd. And yet, she remained vigilant, eyes wide open to any subtle clue that the Gods of revenge were ready to offer a hand in support.
The dog, whose name was Bart or Simpson (or something vulgar) was really rather sweet, which became confusing. It was as if a thorn in her thumb had become a familiar, almost welcome, friend; the sting long gone. All that remained was the dog, and her aloof husband who, for some reason, was acting a jealous fool of the dog and her joyous embrace of his overly large paws.
She would think on his odd behaviour again, in the morning. Or now, perhaps, as the Nurse set her cast for the third time in three weeks and told the same old story.
How unfortunate that the nurse had also fallen down the stairs in that very same year.
I mean, I sometimes wonder if I can still write fiction that peels my skin from the bone. Words I read back after I’ve written them and find that they speak to my soul.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written any fiction. My poor novel is sitting desperately among the cobwebs of my computer, wondering where I am. The short stories I once wrote are just that: short stories I once wrote.
The truth is, I’m afraid.
Because I wonder if I can still write.
And so I procrastinate and procrastinate until I don’t even try anymore. I know it is simply a matter of starting. But. I don’t even start.
I am too busy to scratch my nose, also, so that is one actual fact I can’t ignore. Even if I was brave enough to face the looming blank page, there is no time for that in these early stages of newborn life. These moments, now, are stolen moments I am taking back from Motherhood.
And I’ve chosen to give them to this place.
My heart place.
My home. (Where all of you are. My beautiful bloggy family.)
If history has anything to say about this pattern of me, I will make my way, eventually, to the place of bravery that allows for creativity to run free of the well. I will, once again, bring my whole soul to the surface of my world. I will create worlds, and lives, and beauty through art.
But that time is not now.
Now, I am here. (Happily, peacefully, lovingly I am here.)
Savouring these stolen moments.
Waiting for the baby to wake, running from the fears I know are lurking in the shadows.
I am not afraid to sit still. Here. Now. I am not afraid of this.
The sweet divinity that lingers at the edge of life.
Writers and artists know it well. Actors and musicians feel it within their bodies. And none of us have any clue as to what it is. Not even those who believe, beyond a doubt, that they do know the source of this most beautiful, magical wind.
To understand this force would surely be like bottling and dissecting infinity. How could you bottle a never ending force like that? More to the point, how could you ever truly understand what it was or where it had come from? I just don’t think it would be humanly possible.
I read a book a little while ago, by Sue Monk Kidd, named ‘The Book of Longings’. I’ve been re reading it, and last night I couldn’t help but smile as I came across a familiar idea. The invisible divinity. She mentions it in the book, and right away I knew I had to share it with you all. Surely as readers and writers, both, you have felt this invisible magic. How beautiful it is to know we are not alone in our recognition of it.
The act itself of writing evoked powers, often divine, but often unstable that entered the letters and sent a mysterious animating force rippling through the ink.
Sue Monk Kidd. The Book Of Longings
At University, I studied writing. One of the units I studied was called, ‘Writing: Finding your Voice’ but the thing was…it never seemed as simple as that, to me. That we each have a ‘voice’ we can use to write with in a unique and beautiful way, or that one could simply ‘find’ this voice. Like finding a tennis ball beneath a shrubby, weedy bush in the desert.
All I can say about this mysterious voice is that I feel its magic arise when I relax my entire body and stop thinking. I’ve heard the phrase thrown about that, to evoke the force, we need to ‘get out of our own way’. To me, this is both entirely accurate and also impossible to comprehend.
Just whose way are we getting out of exactly?
And what, exactly, is the mysterious animating force behind it all?