Can I be lusciously written?
Can I consciously allow myself to tap into a divine source of inspiration, of wisdom flowing through me just by opening the faucet? Can I be that vessel, that portal, upon my own request?
Or is this spring of information ever present? The internal wisdom of collective memory that we can all tune into? Or maybe we are tuned in, but forgot or switched ourselves of through our busy busy lives?
There’s this magic feeling that comes over me every now and then. It tingles my skin, as the touch of a lover can do. The slightest suggestion of a caress, that makes my blood rush.
It’s an urge to create. As the water reservoir that seeks release, and then, when I open the portals, it gushes through at a pace that is hard to follow.
And I have no idea what is coming out with the water. I know words will come, but not what they transmit. It just pours out.
This place feels like my true source of inspiration. I know many creative geniuses have felt it. Mozart described it, just as John Lennon did. Goethe. Ghandi. Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s like stepping out of the way of something bigger than the self.
And it’s the most magical feeling I know, although sex comes really close. It’s like a long, gentle orgasm, moving through me as I write, or facilitate a workshop and play with the group.
Afterward, I might not remember a thing of what I said or wrote. And it doesn’t matter as it’s not about performing or achieving anything.
It’s the thinking mind resting and the belly celebrating with joy and lust of creation and sharing. The spirituality of giving, the prayer of sharing, the humbling experience of being written, painted or composed.
Words are my chosen form of art.