Inspiration. What is this thing called inspiration? It is anything or anyone that gives you that rising passion in your heart to create something, to feel something, to sing something. It is what makes you breathe deeply and love life if for only one moment.
At times, I have noticed that in a month’s span I have been possessed to write as many as thirty articles; roughly the creation of one ‘writing’ per day. At other times, however, a month (or two or maybe even three) will go by with little more than a few rough drafts to show for my efforts. Since I write when the urge overtakes me, I have always wondered exactly what it was that was taking me over; what was it that inspired me at one particular moment and why did it not inspire me in the next?
In the twilight of dawn, when my insomnia keeps my eyes wide open, these are a few of the many questions that dance freely through my mind. In questioning the sporadicism of my muse, I have always wondered about the possibility of a pattern behind my whims. And, though it sounds crazy (as some assume particular writers to be) I actually went so far as to map out a matrix to see if, from there, I could predict future patterns in my writing.
And I did. The pattern had proved thus; the fact that May and November were my most productive months. All of the in-between months ran with a variance of productivity that was much less than the apex point; but, spanned well enough to produce a minimum of at least three articles regardless of other trends.
Downfall months were typically noted in December and June (the usual timing of holiday season and family vacations.) Reaching across the board, the second and third weeks of any month were generally the most proliferant. And, without variation, it seemed that within the larger cycle of a year, everything was microsized on a true cycle of six months, generally with few exceptions.
So, as I had gathered, sorted, and organized this information into good use, I felt as though I had become the controller of my destiny, the goddess of my domain, the ruler of my surroundings; and, I now had an insight that I had never before seen.
But as always, when my feeling of elation had reached Icarian levels, I was plucked from my perch by the unpredictable hands of fate. And even though I had assured myself that such a science could never be wrong, the worst possible thing happened; my matrix fell flat on its back.
Through no rhyme or reason, with no rationale and no benefit of explanation, (and obviously against the guidelines and predictions of my many graphs and charts) I started writing as never before.
One, sometimes even two and three creations a day, fell from my fingertips with a fluid ease. Little bouts of sleep were interlaced between my painterly-possessions. I ate while working. Wrote more ideas while taking a bubble bath. Everything seemed to flow through me with little resistance.
Now, the thing was it all would have seemed very normal to me, this lifestyle – this mania, if it weren’t for one small detail; it defied the pattern of my matrix; my blessed, lovely matrix. Now, I could have understood that this kind of thing should have taken place in May and November; but, it didn’t. Instead it went on from mid-June to early-July (even despite the annual family vacation.) In that time I had created thirty-seven new works; far more than my pinnacle months had ever spawned before. And, it seemed to me as though my hypothesis was wrong and my calculations ceased to matter.
But how could it be? I had crunched all of the numbers and put everything into a perfect, predictable order…but, of course, as anyone who reads this must certainly be aware, inspiration is not something tangible enough to be clocked or charted (silly me.) It isn’t even something to be viewed, harnessed or measured.
And prediction with such a thing is always out of the question; because, inspiration is, no less, a privilege sent to a person from some unknown source, relaying the presence of an unearthly gift into that of an earthly form. And that can happen anywhere, at any time, and for any reason.
Though I thought it possible to pinpoint its origin and plot its strategy, I found that it was not. Not just because it is impossible for it to be as such; but, also because of the fact that inspiration exists largely due to the element of surprise.
I must admit, I do hate surprises. But, as I slowly become more aware of my own lack of control in this universe, I am learning that surprises, all uncalculated and lacking of expectation, can be good; and I embrace them. At least, a little more than I did of all those graphs and pie charts.
At certain times while writing this, I caught myself jabbing at what really sabotages a spirit. I kept thinking that I should be cleaning. I should be weeding. I should be creating a masterpiece. I should be designing a gardening shed. I should be doing a collage for my friend. Well, I didn’t do anything I should have done. My spirit spoke to me and I listened. I just lived. I wrote. I breathed in and out and felt it. I ate and tasted, I slept and rested. I cried. I laughed. I lived.
I am renewed. I am no longer a shell protecting my spirit within. My spirit shines through my eyes and I feel my heart.
What more inspiration does one need?
photo source: www.threenailsphotography.com