When I write something from a head space it always feels forced, like I’m trying to push the words out. If I’m writing just to meet a self-imposed deadline or to receive a particular effect, if I’m writing to elicit a particular response, when I’m trying hard to churn the words out, I can feel them gather in my frontal lobe, steam coming from their ears, trying to make me happy. But, they are forced out all the same.
When I write something from a place of inspiration, the words just flow, almost thoughtlessly, with minimal effort or intrusion. When this happens, I don’t question what is written for I know it is what is meant to be.
However, more often than not, I forget to pay attention to my source of inspiration and I give more attention to my mind. I give more of my faith to my mind. I fall under the illusion that I have a better handle on things than my spirit does. Pretty funny.
But more and more lately, I am turning within, asking within, What is the story that exists in me that is waiting for me to be ready to share?
In my morning routine this morning I was in the mood to write a poem, but I didn’t want it to be a mind-led poem. I’ll share with you now the poem that came out:
I went inside
And asked Inspiration
Whether or not
It had a poem for me
Waiting, just to be written
Inspiration responded,
First, light a candle
So I did
And I became so distracted
By the lighter that wouldn’t light
That my mind forgot
To get involved
With the poem
Providing exactly
The window of opportunity needed
For Inspiration to slip through
Unimpeded
And write this poem
And my mind thought
Ahhh
There must be a metaphor
In there, somewhere
About the lighter not lighting
It’s one and only purpose in life
Not being able to actualize
And Inspiration said,
Shhh
You’re ruining the moment
Sometimes
It’s enough
To be
Your own light
-mtg
