My writer friend often complains about his muse—she’s usually late, often doesn’t show up, and when she does, she tends to give him a pretty hard time. And yet, he sits down to write again and again, because when it’s good, it’s just so good.
I don’t really imagine a muse for myself, but I do sometimes think of ideas and inspiration as little birds flitting about all around us. They’re everywhere—restless, fleeting, easy to miss.
Sometimes I imagine that if I get quiet enough, centered enough, if I really till the soil of my own inner being, one of those birds might just land.
I suppose that’s what’s happening in today’s painting. The inspiration has landed. The environment was right. There was room for it to stay.
What transpires from this encounter? I’m not entirely sure yet. We’ll have to see what these last five days hold.
What helps you create the kind of inner space where inspiration feels safe enough to land?


