A dose of inspiration
Just at about ten o'clock tonight, when all my family decided it would be better to be in bed than to sit aimlessly about the house, I woke up. Not that, by any means, I literally woke from sleep. Rather, I mean to say that I came out of the stupor I had been in for so long. And in the end (the point I was getting at, of course), I had inspiration to write once more.
Therefore, I am writing. I have read too much to deny myself the pleasure of forming, drawing, creating, illustrating--if I seem to mimic other authors, I admit now that I am a mimic-er. What THAT particularly means I will leave you to either decide or discover. In the mean time, I will continue my inscriptions on my dear Nook, and battle with my own weariness.
I am afraid that, when I decided I had inspiration, I did not decide in what way I felt this inspiration. More or less, I felt smiley and glad of the night for no specific reason at all. No, instead I simply wanted to write.
Knitting something new...listening to the wind as it moans down the streets...watching the old cat as it goes hither and thither (nevermind where to!).... I am sitting among the collective artifacts required of a charming household. I can just imagine a small fire burning merrily at the hearth, jumping and popping in excitement. My sister is telling us all some funny or happy circumstance that at one time occurred, to which my dad laughs and wonders at its absurdity. My brother wanders back and forth, thinking of an improvement on his snowshoes, asking others their opinion, but always answering his own question. My mom is around, lighting a candle and remarking on both my siblings' chatter. I am at my place on the bricks of the hearth, absorbing the heat while knitting fast and easy. From there, I watch everyone, listen, and comment when comment is needed. Everybody is in a good humor this night.
By ten or eleven, though, everything changes. The fire is a mere heap of red coals, seeming to slumber behind its closed glass doors. The cat sits where I watch her tonight, under the coffee table and on her cardboard bed. The wind moans, yet all seems silent but the clock in the kitchen. My knitting is to my right, an old stitch dictionary to my left. The candle is blown out, the doors locked, and all but three lights are off. And as I write, I feel my toes grow chilly, wonder if I should clean my mug, glance guiltily at my phone, which I feel obligated to use more than I want, and scratch my head as I search for THE word that can only say what I mean JUST right.
So is another night. I dream a little, or wish I could dream some, and wonder about this or that. I wonder if I wonder more than other people? I suppose that will never be solved. Only recently have I discovered that a person's face does not reveal the thoughts behind it, so I can never know if someone is thinking or not thinking at all. Nor will I ever answer why I expect to solve all my problems, even those of the universe, by walking. I always feel that if I walk just long enough, life will straighten itself out. Of course, this is never true, so you have to keep walking and walking--a prime example of positive feedback, I believe. What else did I wonder today? Maybe I will leave YOU to wonder that!
Now I think I am ready for bed, ready to break the spell I have been weaving myself into! It is such a nice, interesting spell, though. Words and thoughts become all mingled together, making a beautiful...something. Whether this "something" is an atmosphere, a picture, a melody, or even nothing at all, I do not know. All I know is that the only regular writing I have is in my nightly ritual of reading and understanding different biblical passages, in which I revel less in the writing and more in the fascinating truths. Yet every once in a while, such as tonight, I venture to stand on the brink of a different world, too often hidden behind the doors of practicality and normalcy.
Therefore, I am writing. I have read too much to deny myself the pleasure of forming, drawing, creating, illustrating--if I seem to mimic other authors, I admit now that I am a mimic-er. What THAT particularly means I will leave you to either decide or discover. In the mean time, I will continue my inscriptions on my dear Nook, and battle with my own weariness.
I am afraid that, when I decided I had inspiration, I did not decide in what way I felt this inspiration. More or less, I felt smiley and glad of the night for no specific reason at all. No, instead I simply wanted to write.
Knitting something new...listening to the wind as it moans down the streets...watching the old cat as it goes hither and thither (nevermind where to!).... I am sitting among the collective artifacts required of a charming household. I can just imagine a small fire burning merrily at the hearth, jumping and popping in excitement. My sister is telling us all some funny or happy circumstance that at one time occurred, to which my dad laughs and wonders at its absurdity. My brother wanders back and forth, thinking of an improvement on his snowshoes, asking others their opinion, but always answering his own question. My mom is around, lighting a candle and remarking on both my siblings' chatter. I am at my place on the bricks of the hearth, absorbing the heat while knitting fast and easy. From there, I watch everyone, listen, and comment when comment is needed. Everybody is in a good humor this night.
By ten or eleven, though, everything changes. The fire is a mere heap of red coals, seeming to slumber behind its closed glass doors. The cat sits where I watch her tonight, under the coffee table and on her cardboard bed. The wind moans, yet all seems silent but the clock in the kitchen. My knitting is to my right, an old stitch dictionary to my left. The candle is blown out, the doors locked, and all but three lights are off. And as I write, I feel my toes grow chilly, wonder if I should clean my mug, glance guiltily at my phone, which I feel obligated to use more than I want, and scratch my head as I search for THE word that can only say what I mean JUST right.
So is another night. I dream a little, or wish I could dream some, and wonder about this or that. I wonder if I wonder more than other people? I suppose that will never be solved. Only recently have I discovered that a person's face does not reveal the thoughts behind it, so I can never know if someone is thinking or not thinking at all. Nor will I ever answer why I expect to solve all my problems, even those of the universe, by walking. I always feel that if I walk just long enough, life will straighten itself out. Of course, this is never true, so you have to keep walking and walking--a prime example of positive feedback, I believe. What else did I wonder today? Maybe I will leave YOU to wonder that!
Now I think I am ready for bed, ready to break the spell I have been weaving myself into! It is such a nice, interesting spell, though. Words and thoughts become all mingled together, making a beautiful...something. Whether this "something" is an atmosphere, a picture, a melody, or even nothing at all, I do not know. All I know is that the only regular writing I have is in my nightly ritual of reading and understanding different biblical passages, in which I revel less in the writing and more in the fascinating truths. Yet every once in a while, such as tonight, I venture to stand on the brink of a different world, too often hidden behind the doors of practicality and normalcy.
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