“…this is the other side of the contract with creativity: If inspiration is allowed to unexpectedly enter you, it is also allowed to unexpectedly exit you.
…the best way…is to move on with swiftly, with humility and grace. Don’t fall into a funk about the one that got away. Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t rage at the gods above. All that is nothing but distraction, and the last thing you need is further distraction…Better to just say good-bye to the lost idea with dignity and continue onward. Find something else to work on—anything, immediately—and get at it. Keep busy.
Most of all, be ready. Keep your eyes open. Listen. Follow your curiosity. Ask questions. Sniff around. Remain open. Trust in the miraculous truth that new and marvelous ideas are looking for human collaborators every single day…
Let them know you’re available.
And for heaven’s sake, try not to miss the next one.”
—Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic
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It was one of those rare moments in life when, outward, nothing appears to happen or change, but within, there is a shift—a redirection and movement-happening that is ending of an old and demarcation of a new. A door is closed. A new is opened.
All within, blind to outward eye.
He stared in read of the sky blue letters over lacquer-veneer of white heirloom doors. Name repeated three times in trinity and trifoliate, and in it—as he had so many times in other means—he discerned God-sign and speak.
A path was ended—though he knew not why it ever lived. He felt it then, releasing with gratitude of the happening, for inspiration and God’s lead even if its reason and aim were beyond his ever knowing.
Our lives are not entirely ours, and when submitting to its inspirations, we become instruments to supernal intents. It is a magic and mystery of faith too readily dismissed; and modernity wonders why life feels there’s something missing.
Without this—there is.
He stilled and slowed, stared on the sign, and then she was by his side; coffee in hand, morning sunlight’s gold in catch of motes in air.
He read by her eyes, curiosity for his fixation; but she didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.
Some secrets are meant to remain and save in the sanctuaries of heart and chambers of inner mansion. Safe, secure, in a room of space and light, his reason remained.
A door was closed. A new was opened. Gold light touched upon the letters glowing back of lacquered white.
Inspiration ended.
New appeared.
Eyes opened, he listened to the living—creak of the floor at shift in stand, song of birds alive and adoring morning sun, soft passes of her breaths in calm exhales; coffee’s steam stirred in breath-effect.
He lived open to the magic, open to the mystery—trusting miraculous truths.