A Prayer for the Wild Creatives
Or, ‘An Open Letter to Your Wildly Creative Bones…’*
I’ve been thinking about you lately. A LOT.
You the wild one. You the wonderful one. You whose secret names are Wholeness, Perfection in Essence, Power and Beauty.
You whose vital voice will oft-times unloose the tears that roll down like waters—righteous and unrestrained—and still and somehow mine eyes are lifted up.
Your Heart Songs sung and sonnets spoken from Soul-Center all-ways do this to me.
I’ve been feeling you lately. A LOT.
I know how identified you are with your struggle.
Hell, you’ve told me a thousand times. And three more after that.
I also know that the Visions that won’t let you sleep—and even when they do they populate your dreams because they are not of your Heart but ARE your Heart—are crisp and clear as daybreak in the northern mountains.
The ones that make you rise into your right place of gratitude like…
First foot touch the floor. THANK. And the next now. YOU.
Even if it only lasts for a moment before the old ways that no longer serve you begin insinuating themselves into your thoughts again it is a good place to inhabit. And the more you do… the more you do.
It’s like this for me, too.
And do you remember when you said to me and also the trees, “I am not big enough to love you. I can only like you.”? Your Heart was full of the Life that made it and believing it just might explode for the un-fucking-believable magnificence of it all.
I remember. And we’ve all said something like this at one time or another. Out loud or inside of thousands of our 66,000+ thoughts a day.
But something has changed…
The time for action, the time appointed for you to step into your Destiny is NOW.
If you’re still coddling your guilt surrounding your indecisiveness, please…
Now is the time for doing that something that makes you smile. And not the chuckling thing. The permagrin thing.
Start fleshing out the Visions and repeat after Rumi, “Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah. It makes absolutely no difference what people think of you.”
(Mevlana Jelaluddin may not have been perfect, but he knew a few things about aliveness.)
Now again and every Now thank GODN-A-T-U-R-E that you’ve learned the ways of undoing—you’d probably be dead if you didn’t.
But don’t wait any longer, okay? It’s time to begin building.
It’s time to start doing.
We’ve been seeing each other lately. A LOT.
For my part I’ve been watching you bend and twist into and out of contortions of your own design—like a child whose temper tantrum goes unnoticed and, eventually, decides, Well, maybe I’ll go outside and play…
You feel better then.
Your face reflecting ferns waving in summer pond and the dragonflies dusky blue dancing about its surface.
They’ll never make a camera that can capture that essence.
And then just now, while speaking of the trees, you see the forest.
The greatest in the smallest.
And this line, “Even inside the tiniest house of time/ you will find me alive and well/ I’m doing fine…” runs through your mind like a medicine train and you remember.
Always and All-Ways—these still shots of Eternity.
I AM This. And You… ARE That.
You’ve been praying for me lately. A LOT.
I want to thank you.
And trust this, love. I pray for you, too.
You know I keep a Gratitude Journal, don’t you? And also that you’re in it?
The entries under your secret names usually look like this:
I love your Creative Impulse and the way you act on it. Riding the wave with no rip-cord and staying out of your own way. You’ve become the ride.
I love the way your pen looks when you’re scratching symbols into parchment—like an extension of your hand.
(And I hope you’re still blessing the work of your hands.)
I love your inky fingers.
Sometimes there’s dirt under your fingernails and I love that, too. That’s how poetry should be—a bit gritty so as not to leave the pores feeling ignored.
I love your every utterance… Especially the one that rises with your laughter.
Your eyes light up when that happens and the glow spills over and it feels like Home.
And I’m so grateful right now to be shining here with you.
Maybe we get more than one shot at this. It’s entirely possible.
But in the interests of immediacy (and the rich and sustained awareness that’s needed to keep the mutherfucker fueled) I’ma go ‘head and act like we don’t.
Amen. Awomen. Atypical.
But never AWOL.
Let’s do the shift uplift create thing…
Je t’aime, my friend.
P.S.*This post began as a letter to a friend and was sent to her first, but as Billy B. Yeats was known to croon in Faery Cove, “There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t yet met.”
Why not share it with the world? We all need the reminders from time to no time.
P.P.S. Care to introduce me to a new friend? Feel free to feel free. Spread the words…