Inspiration

It had been nearly a decade (I think) since I’d read my last novel. Self help and how-to books came and went along the way, but I never made time for pure fiction since I set off on my own. I guess I was never an avid book reader outside of English assignments, but after years of replacing paper with screens and reading not much more than the occasional article or google search results, I felt like my mind was withering away, and it really needed a work out. Although my choice of a contemporary, millennial romance wasn’t exactly rave worthy in my opinion, I pushed through to garner the full experience or… at least feel the rush of dopamine from completing the task. Little did I know that the mediocre read would give me something none of those self-improvement books could give me.

The exchanges written within the book, the descriptive nature of the character’s thoughts and actions, triggered me to internally narrate my daily life, in such a way that described the most mundane tasks and actions; folding the laundry, seeking out food in the pantry; as thoughtful and deep. I silently documented my every move with sports-caster dedication, even sitting and watching the clouds came with a constant commentary. Watching them ebb and flow; an opaque, fluffy, white one would become seemingly effervescent and dissolve before my eyes. A lumpy duck morphed into an expressive clown, while waves and a sail boat gently coasted and stretched towards the north.

While observing my thoughts, I thought, “wow, this is what being a writer feels like”. After reading someone else’s story and then beginning to observe my own, it felt like I was lifting a veil backstage where you see the inner workings of a person’s experience. Instincts, feelings, judgement, all interlaced to determine their reactions to the environment unfolding around them.   

Lately I’ve been thinking about dams. When visiting the wilderness, I’m always looking closely for a glimpse of their furry tenants, but the beaver isn’t exactly what I’ve been associating with. When I really think about my career goals, my mind begins to envision a forest stream, tranquil and calming, then the scene starts to slowly pan out to reveal a mountain of branches and mud. Then I feel this instant emotional block and a little queasy. This unappetizing visualization has occurred for the last few months, until I was narrating the clouds one afternoon and felt a stroke of genius.

The voices in my head have been fighting for a while over whether or not I’m destined for great things. If on a chance day I am, the “but can you?” question is popped and then after that the ever doubtful, “but will you?” chimes in, then pretty soon I don’t remember the initial question and I feel dizzy and bruised by my shadow boxing before I ever took a step into the ring. Since I left home, the mentality among myself and the company around me has seemed to be “sharing is scaring”. But here lately, I’m starting to believe that judgement is an illusion and that the only one really in control of judging my life is me. So why is it I never seem to drop a metaphorical mallet in my favor?

I remember when I would get on stage for spoken word poetry and publish articles and art work in the school magazines. But without a platform already established for me and an audience of familiar, supportive faces, I feel disconnected from those experiences in my youth. As if they happened for me and not by me in a distant far away chapter of my life. With so much judgment on social media, and billions of people in the world sharing harsh opinions and criticizing everything, the thoughts of expressing myself have been more terrifying than any grade school self-esteem pep talk ever prepared me for. My career dreams have suffered years of oppression, each year bursting a little more at the seams under the weight of an anvil labeled “expectations” on the side in big block letters.

But after I began listening, I mean, really listening to what that voice in my head has to say, about everything around me and my thoughts and feelings about them, I realized how little I tend to quiet my mind enough to think and listen to the creative commentary within. To connect with that tiny, yet ever flowing spring of creativity that observes the trust and highest of everything. Or even the ugly, icky details too. The judgement I pass on, but still accept and observe and respect as my biased thoughts and feelings based on my experiences in this life so far.

When it’s come down to pursuing my creative passions, I’ve always felt a give and take. Like I had to sacrifice another area of my life or replace the time I spent being creative with further efforts towards my marriage, job or home. It always felt like a piece to a different puzzle, no angle I jammed it or corners I bent made it work in the way I had envisioned. I was always swimming towards that island but caught in a riptide that I couldn’t break free from and my legs were getting tired of kicking and fighting the current of self-doubt in my mind.

Tuning into that voice has brought a new wave of inspiration into my life. I caught it, now I’m riding it and seeing where it takes me. It might crash into the rocks and break my board and my ego or it could be one of those one in a million opportunities that builds momentum and carries me all the way to shore, thrusting me on to the sand where I roll around in laughter and exuberance ready to go again, forgetting all the time I spent waiting. I’m an optimist by nature so even though those rocks are scary, I’ve decided that’s not going to stop me from learning how to surf.

That brings me back to that stroke of genius I mentioned. Turns out that voice inside is pretty smart. Its eloquent and wise, patient and graceful. The thoughts don’t tromp over each other, they dance. In and out of each other’s arms as if twisting around lamp poles on a cobblestone street, splashing in puddles then dried out in a spin. Presumably choreographed but entirely spontaneous. So I’ve decided to share them. No expectations or intentions or definition of failure. I’m purely being free which I realized, (in a narrative daze watching the colors bounce off the clouds) is the nature of true inspiration. It cannot be contrived, captured or sold. It can’t be coerced, contained, or told to come or stay still. The thought of sharing alone has both inspired and liberated me. I don’t have to charge to give. Freedom of speech is just that, and needs no return. While I do hope that others reading this find connection, relation and a purposeful presence in their life, the act of writing it, for me, has done just that. As an artist, a writer, ultimately a creator, all I really want to do is share. And no societal definition of success is going to subdue me in this world. Not in Rhealand.