SPIRITUAL CREATIVITY: PLUG IN!

We practice life mostly along its edges. Who among us emerges stage-ready, the award waiting only our perspired (inspired) clutch & craving?

I walk the riverbank, longing to be in the Flow. I seek the source outside of my own Being – an ultimate & ulterior stupidity (cupidity)?

Yet this is fine.

One becomes wise in discovery, that wisdom is a, if not the, goal. Putting on music for creativity, then settling an activity atop it muffles an intricate rhythm already in expression. I apply the brakes to examine the flow. How many do this? What matters the number, as I’ve noticed I’m only concerned with myself right now. In (at)tending to myself, I tender to all.

The great God of creative force has only to reach to tap me. I don’t need that cattle prod anymore!

If I search for the god of my being, how may I do so other than becoming a prayer?

I am at the stage in my life where returning to Source is a real goal. Returning to the boundary I crossed over into birth, I  burst out from life influenced by this truth. Back & forth have I gone into the arms of & out again – a reflection of Spirit as powerful as the reality. It all is Spirit! Crash! Boom! Bang! Then resettling with a sigh.

The breath coming from deeper inside releases more of my inner  being out to share. One writes to become real & writing at a time when the blind are in power makes for the impulse to become compulsive.

I cannot say Amen to this life while the prayer is in progress!

Sometimes I’d like that: just once to arrive at a goal that does not springboard me, catapult me, back into living more life. This is nonesuch – nonsense.

My life won’t end when I write my epitaph. An ending is a revolving door, after all. I go round & right back into it, whatever that proves to be.

I admit it is nice to take a breath & think it a compilation or summary. Yet each one is a summons for the next. That next one may bring my keenest & best future to me & why not?

BUSHWHACK LIFE!

Capture it, lasso it, for it’s long past midnight; all conclusions foregone. A period becomes instead an ellipsis, the next thought pulling into a station I thought a destination, As Bilbo said, “The road goes on forever.”

As a Journeywoman of life, I have sought & provided comfort, meals, ideas, feelings, responses & so much more. The continuum of flow belies dead ends. There is no respite from or for life.

Like the old couple leaving the theatre, I turn to myself & say, “Always is coming next week, a good show!”

LOVING VS. FORCING

Love is not necessarily the savior it’s touted to be. Oh yes, love can be so much. But love is also the opportunity to be better, gain more, progress faster. Love & its admission (a hairline admission there) still implies forward movement. It’s slowing down to smell the roses, noticing a flower blooming on the stalk while below is its upside-down mirror on the sidewalk. Instead, we acclimate to speed, to diagnosis & concurrence.

It’s the rarest who respond to disparagement & pain with creative sparkle. Pain is a self-absorption of its own, the body becoming experience. Pain can be the truest digression from living in Spirit unless it is found to be a gateway.

What do I live for? Why do I count forward from my half-birthday to the full? Is this for the very young & the somewhat old? Why am I compelled to tell my age to strangers – a kind of egoic brag – I made it this far! – doing it my own way, with my own vocabulary & dodging the blocking of circumstance. I found the workaround to life & stuck to it!

I am lifelong a morning person. A day begun at 8 is already half-done. I was once annoyed with awakening at 4 a.m. but I have found this a gift: silence, potential, an intake of innocent breath. Pre-daylight is pure. Animals pad ancestral paths to water. The moon hangs separate from earth, earnest now upon its own journey, inviting the sun to follow. This time is the shifting of the energetic Tide, in to out. The breeze freshens to fill limpid sails limpid in dreaming.

My Spirit & my body are less entwined, one seeming remote to the other. I push back the covers & reopen the conversation. The invisible dances back lightly, wrapped in shadow. The divine brings itself to awakening organically. There are no responsibilities at this time of day, no drives to take, no clothes to don. Naked is okay at 4 a.m., sealed in my room, wrapped in my thoughts, standing at the foot of the bridge, about to cross over water. The invisible Divine waits, holding out a hand with its invitation to Light.

Flutters in the interior breeze bring tiny eye movements – I think I see bits of light at edges of dark, I swim from dream into carbon-based life, replacing dreams with solid tangibles.

Life is never ordinary. I won’t believe that in a million years.