Thus, when an idea arrives, be it the instigator of a story or poem or work of art, it seems to have a life of its own, wanting to be this way, or that way, and often quite what I’d least expect. I find that forcing things rarely, if ever, works. Instead, I must allow the idea to lead me where it (or should that be s/he?) wants to go, which requires a certain amount of trust—a letting go.
As [Stone] was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out, working in the fields and she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. It was like a thunderous train of air and it would come barrelling down at her over the landscape. And when she felt it coming...cause it would shake the earth under her feet, she knew she had only one thing to do at that point. That was to, in her words, "run like hell" to the house as she would be chased by this poem.
The whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. Other times she wouldn't be fast enough, so she would be running and running, and she wouldn't get to the house, and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it, and it would "continue on across the landscape looking for another poet".
And then there were these times, there were moments where she would almost miss it. She is running to the house and is looking for the paper and the poem passes through her. She grabs a pencil just as it's going through her and she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. In those instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact, but backwards, from the last word to the first. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_Stone)If you have read my Beginning post, then you will know that I live with CFS, a chronic, though often fluctuating, illness. Accordingly, if I maintain an animist point of view, I have to concede that my illness is itself alive, having agency of its own. I visualised it once as a blacker than black pompom-like ball, alternately soft and fuzzy, or sharp and spiky, though now and then sparkling with an inner light.
What if there is something so fundamentally wrong with the world, the lives, and the way of being offered us, that withdrawal is the only sane response? Withdrawal, followed by a reentry into a world, a life, and a way of being wholly different from the one left behind. (http://upliftconnect.com/mutiny-of-the-soul/)
|My pile of winter reading|
Where does the energy come from for creating? Well, if ideas are alive, sometimes I think they must lend me a little spark of their aliveness, and that is what energises me to grow an idea into a story (or, more rarely, a poem or piece of art). A fruitful idea enlivens and motivates me to get to work, and often won’t leave me alone until the work is done. And that is where my focus on animism is essential, for I believe that connection and relationship with the living earth is the key. I need to be open and willing to listen to ideas when they come, and ready to respond, even if that means pushing myself beyond my limits occasionally.
And if we heal ourselves, then perhaps we can heal the world.