Creativity - When to Stay, When to Walk Away

The peaks and valleys of creative energy can often be quite unpredictable. There are days when I am brimming with creative juices that flow effortlessly. During those episodes I’m on fire and can hardly imagine the possibility of falling flat the very next day. It happens.

If you have read any of my offerings, it is obvious that I am rooted in nature; my basic source. I cannot complain, as I have been immersed in my wild landscape, which merges nicely with my inner wildness. When I am in this place of perfection, the unleashing begins. As long as I cannot hear (too many) sounds of human technology interrupting nature’s soundtrack, I’m good.

Last spring I tried to sit outdoors with a tape recorder to capture a variety of twilight birdsongs. I managed to get a few minutes here and there, but was shocked when I realized that I had to stop the recording frequently because of aircraft overhead or a random tractor passing by. I live in the woods, but not deep enough (for me). I started to focus on this inability to hear only natural sounds and basically freaked out because at times one would think that I lived near a major international airport. I do understand that there are military operations overhead. I hear them day and night and actually hear them now as I write this. There has been a great deal of controversy regarding the noise from people who reside in this region and along the inland Maine and New Hampshire border. It doesn’t matter.

The day before yesterday there were not enough hours in the day for me to create. I harvested, walked in fields and other wild places, wrote, spent time adding to my ongoing mandala and sang freely. The sun was hot and I liked it; sweat means you are alive. I had quiet time to reflect and I ate good ice cream.

Yesterday I took on a more serious assignment and got into technical, gritty work that meets today’s heavy issues head on. The subjects ranged from the environment to economics, global to regional, impossible to unimaginable. I often avoid writing about these issues, wanting to keep the bulk of my work uplifting and motivational. I want others to rejoice in the wild beauty of this planet and to see the significance of simple things like dragonflies, a spider web in light and shadows, and the understated bud that blossoms into something abounding and magnificent simply because it is meant to.

How often these simple pleasures are overlooked because we are caught up in the busyness of everyday mundane tasks. We become trapped in our own cycle of mediocrity.

At the end of the day, I finished my task of facing the ugliness that pecks away at us relentlessly and I was exhausted. Not in the way that I am fulfilled and want to collapse from sheer physical exhaustion and satisfaction from crawling around and bending over plants, weeds (to most) and flowers. My head was full like a sponge filled with water, oozing and dripping. I thought that there was no room for anything else, even the good things.

I went outside and rummaged around in the gardens, picking vegetables and the last of the wild black raspberries. I had no energy. I sat on the porch steps and watched the hummingbirds, which usually offer inspiration. I simply fell flat.

A few deep breaths afforded a small dose of liveliness, but it was quickly snuffed out when the jets roared overhead.

I accept that every day cannot be filled with seemingly unending joy. I walked past my unfinished artwork, out of tune cello and I drew a bath with lavender. As I soaked in the tub, my muscles, tense from over thinking, relaxed. Lavender has that affect on me.

I went to bed and read for a while, trying to ignore the normal sounds of an old farmhouse creaking. I tossed and turned throughout the night and woke up weary, heading for the coffee.

I sat in front of my computer sipping my coffee and opened an email. In it was a beautiful photo. That’s all it took to stir my senses. I studied the composition for a bit and felt the inspiration rise within. I walked away from the computer and dumped the rest of my coffee down the sink and got dressed.

Almost giddy, I found myself barefoot in the damp grass. The wild landscape called for me to go this way and that. Plants that were starting to flower the day before were in full bloom. I dashed inside to get my camera. The possibilities were endless.

I captured photos by the pond where the frogs seemed to be waiting for me. I am delighted that we have established trust; they no longer leap into the water (with a deep ker-plunk) when they hear me approach. They look at me and maintain their positions, allowing me to lean perilously over the edge to snap a photo.

My favorite moment was lingering in the field near a Ruby Meadowhawk; a dragonfly. He was vibrant and patient. If I had a mind to, I might have reached out and touched him. We communed for what seemed an eternity. I captured a few photos and imprinted his essence deep into a sacred place that will serve me in the days ahead.

I then harvested mint, marjoram and cat mint before assessing the goldenrod that is almost ready. I sat on my favorite log in the meadow by the pond and absorbed the stillness. The heaviness that was pressing down on my chest had lifted. I gave thanks to the Creator for the sum of what surrounds me; the absolute power of little miracles that are the basic core of who we are, as one.
Journal: Scarlet Lily

Moonfield – Awakening

It seemed like forever before the rains came. I know better than to anticipate; waiting like this makes me somewhat edgy. The air was still and the energy thick, influencing the tone within.


I mistook the wind for rain more than once, rejoicing prematurely only to be humbled by my impatience and expectations. It was a wise choice to go berry picking, barefoot, under a fickle sky.

I passed by the once perfect, now departed daisies, whilst following my well worn path. The mints seemed to be reaching out like eager school children, “Pick me! Pick me!” But it simply was not their turn.

I avoided the drama of the Blue Jays’ agitated clamor just beyond the fringes of the trees, the protective, persistent chirping of a chipmunk and the telltale signal of the approaching end of summer from the drone of the Cicada. Clearly in it together, we shared our tension.

However, my breathing came easier with the picking of each berry. From each passing, wordless song in the nearby wood, I reclaimed my inspired center and optimism. I stayed with the task, reeling myself back in when I wanted to wander somewhere else (but I did check on the flowering Milkweed on behalf of the Monarchs).

I considered powerful connections initiated in the New Moon, pondering limitless possibilities. I fought the impulse to retreat to safety, determined to tap into the fullest extent of my potential and higher souled aspirations.

I fell asleep to the sound of falling rain and awoke to the same – a gentle reassuring melody quenching both the parched earth and my spirit. Against my better judgment, I found myself amongst the black raspberries, barefoot (again) and with a tee shirt. My flesh provided a feast for ravenous mosquitoes. Ah, but I did well just the same. I encountered a few spots of mud that squished agreeably between my toes.

The rain stopped, giving way to tightfisted clouds, unwilling to surrender. I took note of a very unique spider that I tried to capture on film but just could not bring myself as close as need be. My peering at him and positioning of the camera caused us both to wonder.

Today I will leave my comfort zone in nature and on the page, and return to my canvas, which has been waiting far too long. It is through various mediums that we find new channels of creative expression and a deeper connection to the source. The seeds have been planted. The time for new growth and creation in the Moonfield awakens.
Journal: Scarlett Lily

 

Sing Again

I walked and I waited beneath gray skies and syncopated rain. I could not find a reason to stay, yet I could not find it in my heart to leave. The birds sang sweetly in the middle of the day.


I envied the courage of the deep purple crocuses when they joined in song, not caring that they might die tomorrow.

The language of the senses spoke, wrapping around me like a tight fitting glove. In order to stir me, the wind blew through the outer edge of the Pine Grove. The giant White Pines called in separate creaking voices to remind me of their presence. I stopped and listened like it was the first time. [It was not, but then again it was].

I heard what they had to say and with the guidance of my inner compass, I was able to follow the conversation. Distinctive pitches swirled gracefully above within the highest green boughs stretched up towards the sky. An urgent cacophony of voices begged to be heard and then subsided, dying down to one deep, ancient voice of the eldest White Pine, commanding peace and order.

When the wind ceased, the silence tormented me. Was it greedy to want more from all possible voices of this green earth? I think not. It is with love, joy and concern that I hear messages woven within an earthly tapestry of sacred harmony.

The weeping clouds passed overhead, pausing long enough to witness the truth, yet not long enough to quench the ground [so ripe within].

I was grateful for the crow that flew fretfully from one woody branch to the next in an effort to stir the wind. Losing patience and yearning to awaken, I climbed onto the Prayer Rock and waited for the mournful choir of the Pine Grove to sing again.

Journal: Babies Breath

This Balmy Winter Day

I remember that one word spoken in a voice quite like my own. It woke me up. Today when I entered into the woods, I finally understood.

“Needles.”

An unbroken stream of sunlight illuminated one particular Balsam tree, making it appear silvery and alone. I shivered as I witnessed ordinary transition to extraordinary in an instant.

The Black Capped Chickadees called to one another, flitting from branch to branch while the upside down bird sang an intuitive rhythm. The forever questioning Goldfinches begged me to follow them beyond the Prayer Rock, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The snow was peppered with an abundance of seeds, fragments of pine cones and half-opened, Copper Beech seed pods. I stopped to fill my pockets with wild tidbits rich with raw earth tones and of appealing texture, envisioning merries not yet created. I got close to admire the delicate lace patterns of shredded moss and lichen that cling to fallen branches, logs and well worn stumps.

The quickening brook carved a clear path through the slushy snow, carrying an assortment of fallen leaves, feathery fronds, curled birch bark and other woody debris. The water was pristine! Grateful, I praised Our Mother.

The sun warmed my face and shoulders. It was odd being in the cool woods in winter wearing shorts, a tank top and my favorite chunky snow boots. The best part was that there were no bugs.

It was too warm – 81 degrees – and there I was, trudging through the snow with my new walking stick that I found at the beginning of the path and later left by a stream when I stopped, distracted by a gathering of diverse mushrooms and a plush, mossy stump.

Soon moose tracks merged onto the path. Secretly I want to catch up with it (I decided that it is a grand bull moose by the size of the tracks), but it doesn’t happen like that. Then I dreamt of how I would respond if I met with a just awakened bear.

More tracks – coyote, deer, rabbit and turkey – enter, cross and leave the trail in somewhat melodic lines. I studied the imprints and wished in a childish way that we could travel together.

In contrary motion, the brook curved in front of me. It seems I crossed it over and over again, this time not jumping far enough and my right boot filled with water. (It’s always the right boot).

Almost home and at the edge of the woods, I stopped and listened carefully for droplets in the maple syrup buckets. Many folks had given up, but I never give up easily. My smile began in my heart and made its way to my face when I distinguished four steady syncopated drips of much different tones. I would make another small batch of maple syrup or at least have delectable sap for making tea. I gave thanks to the great Maples before going indoors to empty my pockets of the divine trinkets gathered on this balmy, winter day.

For those who claim that global warming isn’t real, I would like to invite you in for a cup of wild earth tea. Let’s talk. I mean, I will be the first one to admit that I delighted in walking barefoot in the mud before dashing across the fast melting ice to the snowfield to bathe in the sun. However, while I was sitting on the old log where I often do, I concurred with the forever questioning Goldfinches when wondering what will be?

Journal:Babies Breath