In all of us there is a bit of whimsy. I know in myself, there is often too much, which if I am honest, it’s why I am always chasing the taillights of my own life.
I frequently remind myself I am the champion of my own destiny, at least to a certain degree. I presume this is why I subscribe to the school of thought known as possibility.
Defined or Chance:
How will I know if who I am now is what was intended? Is cause the effect? Or is it the person pausing at the intersection of the two and responding emotionally and ever after acting out of habit, maybe survival, the reason for this being, this writer I am now. Is this unknown state of being I inhabit the destiny ever mine, regardless of chance or fate’s hands?
Why I am the way, I am:
My knowledge of the greater universe is limited to what I’ve gleaned from the quirky little quotes on every flap and surface of the Celestial Seasonings Tea boxes. I am sufficiently enlightened to respect the influences cosmic forces in the universe have on my own life, or specifically, on my writing.
The sixth sense
Like most writers, I am always hunting the next idea or story, which is usually counterproductive for me as I am not a story chaser. I am a story feeler. On a box of tea or maybe it was my fortune inside a fortune cookie, I can’t remember which, I read: A feeling is an idea with roots.
When a thought, image, name, word, or anything that feels like possibility, hovers, it’s my cue to close my eyes and allow the feeling(s) to wash over me.
Words I live by:
Use your head, but live in your heart and trust your inner voices when it comes to your work.
(Opening yourself to this process can sometimes feel as if the sea is crashing against your body. You will wobble. )
After reading, Claudine’s post—from CarryUsOffBooks—Balloons on Broadway. I gave way to what I was feeling, which felt a lot like this:
Tell me a story of magical mice, princesses
a fairy, a wand, a castle in a land far away
with a kind king, a grizzly bear, a witch, a
book of spells and a girl with magic in her heart.
She can fly and speak Spanish, bake heart
shaped cookies–filled with bittersweet chocolate
and chopped walnuts–the breadth of a saucer,
perfect for dunking into ice cold two percent milk.
Have her sing lullabies and love songs only a
prince would know to sing for his maiden with
raven locks he finds walking alone in the forest
along the river carrying a basket of berries and wild violets.
Bed time now, close your eyes and fly away on the wings
of white doves as they sing their song under the blaze of
stars and a full moon, with only owls and wolves to
share the quiet under the blanket of a darkened sky.
Sleep little one, sleep until the sun is high in the sky
until the evening cold is burned away by the red, gold,
and amber rays of the mid-morning sun; sleep little one
until your dreams are finished, until the morning is clear.
In your dreams, you will meet magical mice, a fairy with
her wand in the castle guarded by a bear and a witch,
watching for the Prince and his fair maiden riding the grey
mare followed by the girl with a magical voice and a book of spells.
I hadn’t planned to post my lullaby-poem but as I traced its origin I was reminded—for the millionth time–how cosmic forces influence my writing. From me, a cookie or a box top, to you: Listen to yourself more often.
Do you give way to cosmic forces and allow them to influence you?