From whence does inspiration come? The unconscious? The fully conscious, responding to Earth and its myriad forms? Other folks? All of the above and more.
Yet sometimes I find myself slipping into a realm that believes only in mystery, in the half-looked upon, the star that can't be seen directly, and I come to believe that my own inspiration and ability to act upon it is somehow tied to that mystery, a mystery that will disappear if I look at it directly or question it.
Of course, that's superstitious, and I try not to encourage that vein in myself, but inspiration can be so wonderfully present at times and then so dried up at others that one can't help but try to figure it out----this essence that cannot, will not be captured----yet can be encouraged (and of course, dismayed).
