I’m chasing inspiration.
I’m running, first in one direction and then another, trying to find a match to my vibration. I’m running but feeling nothing. There is no warmth or tingle of excitement that comes from that sudden spark, that burst of ideas.
I miss it.
Inspiration is like a warm cabin with a fireplace flickering steadily in its hearth and smoke billowing from the chimney. The windows are glowing from the fire and light inside. There’s a lantern hanging above the front door gleaming its welcome to any who approach. A hot cup of something inviting and soothing sits on the counter in the kitchen waiting for me...But I am outside in the snowy forest of lacking.
I’m wandering paths of thoughtlessness and no matter how many times I try to start a fire myself, just to get a hint of what I could be enjoying, a harsh wind snuffs out my efforts and I’m back to rubbing my hands together and blowing into my palms to try to keep my circulation going.
It’s cold and the trees all look grey. The ground is stiff and still and void of the glimmering colors that fill it during the bright seasons of creativity.
There are no birds to sing and chirp their ideas from the tree tops or from the clouds as they soar the skies. There are no deer to stand in majestic poses near the bushes only to vanish the moment I look away, leaving nothing behind but the dance in my eyes and the smile in my heart that I had seen such a creature.
I wish one would show up now, though. I could use that smile and it feels like eons since my eyes have danced in wonder when, in truth, it has only been days.
Still, those days have been long and I’ve been running around trying to find resonance. I need something I can connect with so that I can return to my cabin of inspiration; the place my brain and my heart call home. It is where I am happiest, it is where ideas flow from the mind and through the fingers into the ink of pens then to paper or through the keys of a keyboard to get the message onto to the screen where it can warm the hearts of others.
Instead, I am wandering this harsh wilderness, lost, unsure which direction will lead me back to the heat of the fire or the warm welcome of the drink on the counter.
I’m tired but I keep running. You see, I hate the cold. I dislike the biting chill or the discomfort of shivering. Its exhausting. I’d rather breath long satisfied sighs in the bedroom of the cabin as I lay in the bed of ease and effortlessness. Instead I am trotting about these damned woods and instead of a relaxing sigh, each breath I breath hits the sharp temperature and becomes a cumulus little cloud that eagerly dissipates, escaping where I cannot.
Ah! But within those quick seconds, that little cloud of breath lingers just long enough for me to see it and even if I don’t, there is always another and another to come for there is plenty of air to fill my lungs and thus, I have become a factory of sorts. I produce those tiny clouds as I strain against exhaustion and I notice that each one looks different from the last. I realize that I can blow my breath this way and that, big puffs, small ones, and some that are in between. Could it be? Could this be the glorious sunbeam of imagination shining down on me at last?
Suddenly, my hands don’t feel quite as cold. I my fingertips have stopped tingling and no longer feel as though they are about to fall off. I started thinking how wondrous clouds really were. Those puffy masses floating gently through the skies nary a care in the world. How amazing it would be to float among them or to soar above them. What a view that would be!
I realized then that I had stopped running. Though my chest was still heaving from my efforts, my steps had slowed to a saunter. I looked around to see the break in the trees. The seemingly endless forest had ended and the pathway before me no longer twisted and turned unnecessarily but was now bending in one very distinct direction.
I smiled and felt my heart doing the same. I could smell a wood fire burning in the distance.