Where Inspiration Comes From

“Art is not about understanding...or mastery;  

it’s about doing and experience.”  

-Jerry Salt 

Slipping on Ice 

Frozen in stillness, the slippery ice beneath her boots, fragile like a feather, begins to crack.  Her breath, steady and her focus sharp, there is no time for hesitation. Her body does not betray her, rather, it activates sharp instincts that swiftly move with momentum. The crown of her head gently pulls her up, her spine alert and engaged, becoming lighter as her combat boots kiss the frozen deep puddle of water that is cracking beneath her. She feels her body move with her feet's natural elegance, yet she shrieks, a sound that is both a plea and an act of surrender. For five short seconds she is both disoriented and completely alive.  Intuitively she trusts her body as she dances with potential chaos.  A final graceful leap lands her on solid concrete; saving her combat boots from sinking into cold ice-water. A sigh of relief deep from her belly moves out with a surge of adrenaline as she laughs in gratitude and takes a full breath.  Inspired by the sudden turbulence and almost misfortune, she pierces through monotony and enters the space where inspiration comes from, aware of the world ensouled. 

The Door 

All is beckoning for her attention, senses are heightened, and stillness reveals where the muse's dorm.  Her mind is steady and her vision alert to the magic around her.  Distant street lights softened by the cold night fog, form bright orange flames glowing from torches, illuminating the empty wet streets. The moonlight bounces of the dark pavement, the walls of the stone buildings surrounding her, casting light on the scales of a sea serpent.  Aesthetic appreciation, or perhaps, more importantly imagination naturally amplifies the magic in the stone. She is captivated by the texture of the scaly creature that serves as gate keeper to the St. Louise City Museum.  The iron scaled sea serpent, gliding past her, so swift, almost motionless, leads her eye to follow a path of light.  Dark corners, illuminated by the moon and a few torches, guide the soul towards the open door, an invitation to return to source.  

The cold, sharp moisture bites her exposed face as she begins to fall in love with the unforgiving St. Louise weather. Charmed by the ice-cycles hanging from the glistening leaf-less trees and the almost misfortunate puddle of frozen water on the concrete pavement. Her frail thin body, aching with a mild fever, is no longer at the mercy of the cold sharp wind.  She gives in and the frozen rigid corners in her bones begin to soften, warmth in her chest, the aches melting away into the cold dark night stroll.   

The Witness 

Intuition is in her blood; she innately understands the imaginal realm where all is alive and inspirited, the place where inspiration comes from. Where earth, fire, air, and water merge with ether, as they alchemize into existence.  Sitting on the dry grass outside her home, gazing up into the sky, she enters the realm of the witness. Watching a distant cloud of smoke painted a pale orange, rising from the far-off canyons.  The cloud transforms as the sun sets, alive in all its glory.  In awe, sitting on the spikey blades of thirsty grass, itchy on her smooth skin she watches a Giant rise from the smoke of thousands of acres burning.  The Giant is rising in response to the destruction of the land and the home of countless creatures.  Greek myth say, the Giants call to Gaia, who ”win her support because they are truly earth-born” (Downing, pg. 150).  Her bones know that with great sacrifice comes great change, as she watches Giants rising in plane day.  She prays for all the creatures; the souls battling the flames and feels the heat of her own body rise.   

Looking to the earth, to Gaia, she sets her bare feet firm on the ground and begins to reclaim her bones and flesh.  Silent prayers beneath her steady breath, she sees all that surrounds her is saturated with images that are trembling and shouting to be remembered.  The land being sacrificed, and ash falling on her doorstep, she mourns what is dissolved in the flames of change as she becomes the witness.  

Wild Nature 

The sudden cry of a flock of parrots flying above her head startle her into attention.  She listens with her eyes and sees with her ears as ancient stories emerge from the wild unfolding. Full of fascination, she acknowledges their presence and recalls the stories that explain their yearly visit.  A local myth says the parrots, long ago, escaped a local Aviery, reclaiming their wild nature.  They are seen during the late summer flying near the Valley, above the small towns.  Another myth, claims the parrots migrate yearly from South America.  What is certain is thier visits, the time of year when they rest on the highest branches of the tallest trees and they snack on the fruit trees as they talk amongst themselves in a council. They fly from tree to tree, settling on branches only for a few moments before they fly away into the sunset.  Leaving behind fading echoes and gazing eyes that crave to fly just as free.  

With her bare feet on the ground, she is reminded of her magic when her gaze is captivated by the stillness of a hummingbird delicately hoovering above her.  With steady eyes she watches the hummingbird rests on a small tree branch. The ease of its gentle fluttering and delicate frame slows down time.  A call to slow down and witness the ebb and flow of life and take in joy from the scent of sweet nectar.  Recognizing that spirit guides a bird's wings as they share Gaia’s sacred wisdom.  Nature’s pattern offers deliverance and renewal, inspiration to release and invite what is into being.  

Inspiration 

Inspiration comes from living, breath by breath, moment by moment, dancing with the unfolding images at the edge of chaos. Inspiration rises from streams of sharp frozen edges that soften into roots that sprout life in endless forms.  The witness inhales the aromas, moves to the rhythms, savors the flavors and feels the textures that soothe and awaken the subtle body.  Merging with the essence that dissolves into endless space.  Ether dwells in form, held together by fire, earth, water and air.  Colored by perception, inspirited by breath.  With an open heart and open mind, sense how the muses dance hand-in-hand, humming and singing sacred poetry. Lend an ear and see the dwelling places of the gods and goddesses; witness how the ancestors refuse to allow the body to forget its origin. The soul does not belong to dry and stale places, it seeks out the lived fully embodied experience.  

References 

Downing, C. (1992). The goddess: Mythological images of the feminine. New York: Crossroad.