Friday, May 25, 2012

Waiting for Lightning


I have been sitting around waiting for lightning.   I tried outdoors under the spreading sycamore tree and on the front porch in the little comfy arm chair.  I walked around the block and up to our local mountain top.  I stood on the balcony.  I slept with the window open.  And I waited. And waited.  And waited some more.

No lightning.  Nothing.  Not even a storm, no rain, no blustering winds.  I am in Southern California.  Thunderstorms are scarce here.  Even the metaphorical kind.

I was talking with a friend of mine about creativity and inspiration. We decided that creativity is more often there than not, but inspiration comes and goes.  It takes creativity to find inspiration.  Yet, inspiration is a lot like lightning: it never strikes where you want it to, and when it does strike, if you don’t act right away, it may do some damage, but it is gone before you can capture it.

At least that is what I have been telling myself.  For a while now, excuses and distractions have been my constant companion.  “Not my fault.”  “I don’t have time.”  “There is so much to be done and no one else can do it but me.”  And the most dreaded, “I don’t feel like it.”

That last thought, “not feeling like it”, is the most deadly to inspiration and creativity.  So you turn to waiting for lightning to strike.  And it never does.

The I realized, the “lightning” I have been waiting for has been gently tapping on my windowpane.  It has been whispering in my ear.  I has done everything but struck me.  But isn’t that what lightning is supposed to do?  Doesn’t it, like inspiration, come when you least expect it?

I guess not.

Inspiration is not like lightning.  It is something that can be invited in and welcomed like an old friend.  You can open your mind and your heart to its inspiring you just as your body allows the air to fill your lungs and give you the breath you live on.  Inspiration.  Draw it in to nourish your spirit, your soul and your life.

Oh gee, looky here.  Lightning struck and a musing was born.  How qwerki is that?

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