About four or five years ago, my kids were still relatively young. And I was certainly younger than I am now. For whatever reason, back then, inspiration was something that came to me like oxygen. It was always available in overflowing vats of powerful creativity. I didn't know that it wasn't always going to be this way.
It doesn't worry me that it isn't here as much. I am not working at my creativity as I was back then. That part bothers me. Life changes. The way people need me has changed. Two little boys, a husband, a house full of animals, and they all depend on me. It is a joy but it is also taxing to my mind, to my sense of self which feed my desire to create. I don't turn to paint as I once did because it is messy, it is time consuming, it is a bother.
As soon as I begin a project I have to move on to make a lunch, drive a carpool, help with homework. I am not a person who is good at being divided in the process of creativity. When I work and my mind gets to soaring, if I stop, the rhythm is is not easily recovered. So, instead, I do not begin at all.
I confess, I miss the magic of inspiration. Before, when I would see a fat, red, ruby, I would immediately build something around it in my head. When I would shower, the words would pour out of my mouth just as the water rained from the nozzle. I could write a story in fifteen minutes in my liquid sanctuary.
My kids are going back to school tomorrow. Before my computer died I had three different book outlines cooking along on my computer. I have piles of sketches for projects and articles and bits and pieces of things begun and left behind all over the place. Much cleaning and organizing is in order but the ideas are percolating again.
For the first time in a long time I am yearning anew for inspiration fed hours of creating. I am looking forward to a revival of myself, my spirit, my creative animal, and to reconnecting with all my blog friends.