Here I am. I sit here and wait. I sip a coffee. I open myself to you. And this is what you say. Through me.
There is a god. There is more than just us. There is something out there. Something more than the rational mind. Something more.
It speaks through me, when I let it. It would speak through you, if you let it. It speaks in poems, in stories, in dance. It speaks in music, in paintings, in creation. It has spoken through me in many ways, over the years.
A fourteen line, rhyming poem, to a friend, which ‘expressed more in that poem than twenty emails’. The lyrics to an unfinished song, sent to my love, which told her the story of how she had found and saved me. Which said it in a way that otherwise I could not have said. My creation has never been a thinker’s creation. At that point the magic is gone. My creation has always been through me, not by me. Has always come from somewhere else. Somewhere deep inside. Somewhere definitely outside.
I open myself to you, now, inspiration. I open myself to you, muse. I open myself to you, God, though I don’t believe in you.
Come to me, children, and let’s play. Let’s play in this grand world we live in. Let’s take it on and take it over. Let’s create a new world, the world we all dream of. How do we do that? We open to the creative spirits we are. We allow them out, through the cynicism and the fear, through the doubt and the judgment. We bring love where we go and then everything changes.
When the creative child is released, we are no longer critical. We are no longer tied to ourselves. We are no longer feared. We see our fear for what it is: the thing that allows us to be brave. Because, children, we are brave. It is brave to open ourselves to what we are really capable of. To allow things out from inside us. To allow that there is something inside us. To allow that there is more than us.
That there is a difference between what we see and what we know. What we think and what we know. What we know and what we can know, if we let ourselves.
There is a deep wisdom within us. It will speak, if we can let it. It comes from within us, and it knows. It comes from outside us, from above us, from beneath us, from around us. And it knows.
It will guide us, and it will lead us, and we will lead it, and we will lead you. We will lead you, children, who cannot yet lead yourselves. We will lead you to the place where you can expand, and grow, and contract to your essence, and know why. We will lead you, children, who cannot yet lead yourselves.
We are the brave. We are the creators. We are the children who will never grow up, though we grow old. We are the heroes who lead the charge. The heroes who hold the pass. For though the world is a world of wonders, for though the march of progress and prosperity is a marvel, for though we must bring to all the magic of the world of connection. For all that, we must hold the pass. We must hold it for honour and valour, for love and acceptance, for the strong and the weak, for the smiles and the tears. We must hold it for the chance to hold our child as she smiles. For the chance to hold our parent as he passes. We must hold it for the connection, through which we will guide you into this new world. The new world. The world that doesn’t look back, and doesn’t look forward. The world that embraces all that was, light and dark, for each of us and all of us together. The world which stands up to the darkness with ferocious violence and with love. The world which welcomes the unredeemable to their end, with love. The world which embraces the redeemable and, with love, guides them to you, inspiration. To you, creativity. To you, love.
We must hold the pass. We must smile at strangers. We must offer our help. We must never forget our friends. We must hold the pass.
I sit here, and open myself to you, inspiration. To you, muse. To you, God of Creation, though I don’t believe in you.
And here is what you say:
"You, sitting there, with the sun warming your fingers. Yes, you. You know who I am. You know where I come from. You know I have spoken through all your heroes, in their books, in their songs, in their words of wisdom. I am here and I am real. I am real and I am everywhere. I am here as the feeling rises in your chest and the tears tickle your eyes. I am here in the monologue and the marriage proposal.
I am here in the rational wisdom which guides you here, and guides you there. But I am most here when you release that. When you release your carefully guarded fear, the one you pretend to others and yourself you have broken. When you transcend and include your fear, your Resistance, your former self. When you take him, and care for him, and release him, finally, to allow yourself through. The real you, the beautiful you. The you underneath. The new you.
I am here when you release that little boy, the one in tights in the garden, the one with the shopping basket, the one with the fierce eyes and the quiet sadness. Release him, let him pass on. And release him, let him out now. I am here when you release the tangled teenager, the one with hormones askew, and judgment trapped. The lonely one. The one with elbows everywhere, physically, mentally and emotionally. The lonely one. Release him, let him pass on. And release him, let him out now.
I am here when you release the broken hearted young man. Lonely again, trapped by judgment, tangled disloyalty. The one opening himself to the new possibilities, to new strengths, to new consciousness. Release him, let him pass on. And release him, let him out now.
You, sitting there, the sun warming your fingers. You are bigger than you know. And you are smaller than you know. But then you know this, deep down. Somewhere, you see this paradox. For you can make no difference. And yet, nothing can make a difference except you. And you. And you. And you. You can each make no difference, and yet no one can make a difference but each of you.
So come to me, children. Come to me and live. Come to me, and feel the feeling that you know. You recognise it. You recognise it from childhood, from first love, from last love, from those moments. You know the ones. Remember them. Savour that feeling. Come to me. Feel the Power you have. Feel the Source flowing through you. Feel the sense of magic that is deep within you.
Open yourself to me.
Remember this. Remember that this is the place. The still point. Here, the dance is. Where past and future are gathered. Where angels of the past speak through you, where angels of the future await you. Where, without you, there may be no more angels. You may be the last, unless you speak. Unless you speak with your voice. Unless you speak your truth.
For you can make no difference, and yet no one can speak but you. And you. And you. And each of us can make no difference, yet if none of us speaks there will be no more angels. There will be no more love. The pass will fall. And the hordes will advance.
Open yourself to me.
Stand with me, here. On this hillside. Stand with me, here. In this pass. Stand with me here, in this coffee shop, bus stop, country park, forest at dark. In fear and in inspiration. Here must be the stand. The stand for all we believe in. The stand for a better world. The stand for a better life, for each of you and all of you.
Stand with me, here. In this office. Stand with me, here. On this train. Stand with me here, on this wooden bench, wedding tent, song line, moment in time. In love and in desperation. Here must be the stand. The stand for all you believe in. The stand for all of your world, good and bad. The stand for a life and an impossible dream, for each of you and all of you.
Here. Here is what I say."
I can feel the power rising in me. I seek it from outside. I seek it through the chemicals in my blood and the vitamins in my food. But I find it inside, and in the great outside. And this is different. It is rising in me, from somewhere else. As I sit here, and I open myself.
And even as I do this the thoughts rise in my mind. I push them down. I breathe. I look through the glass, over the keyboard. At tyres and vans, at children and clouds. I notice the rush of the chemicals – what if this is just them talking? What if there is no inspiration? There is no power? And yet there is. Because I can’t remember what I have written. Everything has been building to this point. Every 12-minute piece of writing, every fantasy novel. Every coaching session. Every kiss. Every broken relationship. Every song. Every poem. Every conversation. Every email. Every struggle. Every laugh. Every breath taken. In, and out. Every sound heard, every tear shed. Every moment. Leading to this one. All I can do now is release this, this writing, this laughter. This flow of inspiration.
For it must be released, though the fear rises in me. It must be heard. For the pass must be held. The children must play. And we must listen. We must all listen. And we must act. And we must continue acting. Even when the best action is to sit, silently. By ourselves, or at an easel, or at a keyboard, or at a piano. And wait.
Wait for you, inspiration. Wait for you, muse. Wait for you, God, who I do not believe in.
Wait for the Power, wait for the Source, wait for the flow of that feeling which we know, so well, when we listen. So open. And wait.
I feel the flow subsiding now. Or is it the chemicals? Or am I closing myself to you?
Where did this come from? It came from everywhere, and nowhere. It came from everything and nothing. It is the clarity and silence we seek, and it is the roiling storm that we fear.
I open myself, now. And I wait. And I feel love. For the yawning man. For the straining mother. For the woman, at her desk, who is mine and I hers. For the boy, and the teenager, and the young man, and the less young man, now sitting at a keyboard, smiling to himself. You have done well, man and mother, woman and less young man. You have done your best.
So sit, sometimes, and open yourself. You deserve it.
This piece was written in one sitting as part of a practice in opening up to creativity and deeper wisdom, and posted after only minor proofing.