Selectively Juggling

Daily writing prompt

What do you enjoy most about writing?

View all responses

Sometimes, words fail me. Sad, but true. While other times, it’s as though words dance before my very eyes, mysteriously revealing themselves and the incredible images they convey. They beg me to choose them, giving them life, weaving them into meaningful streams of consciousness. They magically, mystically appear as though I am simply a conduit, a scribe for the Universe, as it whispers their secrets. They allow me to glimpse the possibilities and peer into the tremendous creative void—the kaleidoscopic umbra of creative thought. Ribbons of thought danced before my mind’s eye, teasing me with the glimmer of esoteric genius. Appearing in a frenzied maelstrom of words, my fingers too slow to type, trying in vain to hold the thought, the inspiration long enough to get it down onto paper or keystrokes.

Inspiration and creativity merge in a symbiotic and rhythmic dance, producing clarity, meaning, and understanding. I am in flow. The scene materialises before my eyes; the building blocks are not formed in clay but in words, symbols, and images that have taken the form of words and punctuation. They are like the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights. Their beauty and magic flow fluidly; there is no rhyme or reason; there simply is. I do not waste time questioning their source; I embrace their beauty. I welcome their power and creative energy- moulding and reshaping them into my own form. Or is it I that’s melded into form? Do the words choose me? Does the Universe use me as a conduit? Where do the words come from? Where does the inspiration come from? Is my imagination that incredible? Can my vision produce concepts of new worlds, people, places, and things I have never seen or heard of? Where does creative thought come from? Who inspires? What is the creative mind? Why are some gifted with more profound esoteric thinking, questioning and understanding? People with incredible gifts in life, such as notable artists, painters, scientists, mathematicians, philosophers, sculptors, athletes, empaths, healers, musicians, and dancers, should be responsible for creating. I have always believed they should contribute to a better, complex, diverse world where difference and creativity are respected, honoured and valued. However, I realised it was not just about the end product and that my concepts were quite elitist. Does it matter who creates it or why? Why should someone have more right to being creative simply because their skill and product are deemed more valuable than others? Who assigns value? Is the value of art simply in the creation? Or is it in the end product?

I know the act of holding a camera, losing myself as I peer deep into the lens, lost in the unfolding beauty before me. Holding the camera in my hands is enough for me, simply feeling the outside world fall away as I completely lose myself in the magical moment of creative beauty. Standing deep in nature, witnessing the Universe as it reveals more of its secrets, beauty, and beautiful metaphors, is a creative moment. I feel blessed and honoured to be able to disappear into the moment, as if time and space support me, allowing me to take respite from the ordinary. Instead, it offers me solace in the sacred and the opportunity to slip into the sublime, the beautiful, the magical fibre of creative energy and thought. I am free to feel life coursing through my veins. I feel my spirit, my sense of being wholly recharged. As if being in nature, being creative replenishes me. It fills me with the energy needed to delve into the ordinary, the demands of being a parent, a professional, and an adult. I feel intuitive, and I exist as part of the whole. I am not merely my mind, my body, or my brain.

In those moments, I am my breath, and it is as though it is in sync with the Universe, Mother Earth and nature. The space is gentle; the space is the manifestation of creative love and being. I stand supported by Mother Nature and feel the calming, soothing breeze against my skin, the sunlight and warmth on my head. My senses are switched on, and I hear the bird song. I see the subtle dappled sunlight as it dances in the leaves, settling on the transcendent wings of a bee. I witness the bee hurrying itself, and it dances with the flowers, the music, the pollen, and the creative beauty. The air is filled with the sweet smells of the Australian bush; honeysuckle fills the air.

In those moments, I am in pure bliss, and I am in flow. I am whole. I exist as a creative being, and I do not need to rush home and produce the images. The magic for me is being honoured to slow down enough to see the Universe and Mother Earth reveal their amazing creative secrets. The joy is in the being, the doing, as I watch nature excel as what it does, being a creative source of beautiful energy. I am not talking about sugar and spice kind of beauty; I am talking about the imperfect flow of power and the rhythm of life. There is great beauty in the early embryonic stages of nature and the bright spring and summer, the unfurling. As I witness the awakening, there is also untold beauty in the old, decaying parts of life’s existence. The fine lines belie an incredible journey.