I’ve been thinking about this, thinking without using words. Sometimes I think by not giving it thought. Sometimes it’s best to keep something pure, untainted and unspoiled by the power of words.

I met a man and something came to me and it made itself known and to him I spoke my heart openly.

Let me ask you a question.
It’s a good one too.
Have you ever had a muse?

Inspiration. This is everything. Where does it come from? This is my curiosity. It’s been floating around me, like lightning bugs at dusk, sparking then disappearing until it seems to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

It’s been such that Inspiration forms itself as a question to me. A question without words. Rather a quest, you see. It’s not something to chase. It’s not something to pursue. But something to open myself fully to. So it is a quest without direction and a quest without need. It’s a quest that flows like water or floats like the air I breathe.

And this is why I haven’t written of it. Part of me does not wish to know. Not in a verbal sense. Not manifest in something that could be told. And at the same time I desire its presence and I know it will reveal itself without me asking for knowledge. Perhaps it is the thing in which I trust more than anything else. Because it is always there, always always whenever I look.

It is so there that today on day four, the question is simple, deceptively so. What tends to serve as the most reliable source(s) of inspiration for you?

Love.
Always Love.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.

It was love that inspired me to quit my job so that I could be with myself, to discover who I am so that my writing would be honest. It was love that found me and changed everything. Got me writing poetry. And I love this quote but I forgot how it went. Basically to the affect that everyone at 20 thinks themselves at poet, but if one writes poetry at 40, you are.

When I was 20 I loathed poetry. Couldn’t fathom its depths. Couldn’t be with the abstraction of language in this way. I needed clear and concise and I needed to know. Couldn’t be with questions. Could only be with answers. I was dead. For a long time.

Then the poetry started. It started without my awareness. I would write letters to Mr. Brown and I would feel this verse flowing. I would admire his use of language and his structure of the form and I started experimenting with my own and I felt the poem underneath it all.

But I was not yet ready. So letters I would write and feel the poetry percolate like coffee in an early morning pot. And then, as Mr. Brown came so he left and without him, my muse, the man who brought me from Miss Rosen to Sara, I was bereft. Umm. Perhaps even devastated. Because no longer upon him could I lean and no longer could I use him as a means to mediate my needs. And no longer was he present and without him present I was alone and I was not ready to be alone so I summoned someone else.

And to me he came, but he was unlike anyone I have ever known. And that is because there is something else happening and for that there are no words. He has taken me from Sara to… the unnamed source. It’s taken me forever to understand that there is no bottom to the depths of the soul.