Creative work is a bold attempt to be like God. You can expect it to take you to the edge of human possibility, where the landscape is as dark as the night sky. You can’t know where you are going or what you are doing. You have to have faith and a spirit of adventure that allows you to feel at home in the darkness. As a child of Saturn, you are called to be dark and to be at your best when the emotional and intellectual light is dim. You are an adult, but you are also a child, called to always move gracefully into life- growing up, experimenting, playing, and taking delight wherever it offers itself, understanding that the night is the time of birthing and passaging. To be creative means to be created…..Thomas Moore
like coming home, creating a life, rather than reacting to life, is a soothing, joyous, & mysterious act of comfort……no need for regrets, no need for doing other than what is called for in this moment….no need to fight the dark nights….they feed the day….we ask for more…..enduring is creating & failure is a new road that leads home again & again….a cosmic confidence….
Imagination feeds hope, for there is ‘a sort of innate optimism in all works of the imagination.’ Imagination is so vast, so large, so free that it grows our souls and allows us to ‘contemplate grandeur.’ Isn’t imagination alone able to enlarge indefinitely the images of immensity? It takes us to the space of elsewhere. There is such a profound interconnection between our emptying and the Spirit’s filling. The Spirit flows just as completely into the soul as the soul empties itself in humility and expands itself to receive. It is good that we yield to something more imaginative than the mere rational, the wholly objective. Getting lost is part of the spiritual journey…..Matthew Fox
A Sweet Empty
Under knees in the garden, a little nudge whistles
where trowel to dirt recalls violets in a window.
The vase, curved like a delicate wrist, reflects
that same violet in the stained glass pane.
This detail, a generous moment gifted, sifts
idly as shuffling feet while an iron gate whispers
in the breeze, wishing those violets to life.
What yields to the cold doorknob? Inside, tree shadows
hover over mother-of-pearl inlay, near the writing desk;
the ink is wet. The sunroom’s opus, the trickling
wall fountain, draws out the past in finite harmonies.
The books left behind, postures leaning,
hint at their tired poets, and the empty mantel,
her shoulders bare, yearns for the oval mirror,
the curved bevel gracing her neckline like a cameo.
The tiniest bead in the silken lamp holds new dust.