Molten Woman

1.11.18 Red Crystal Skywalker

The question of inspiration is on the move. I begin responding with the obvious, a list of what inspires me:: Layla’s dedicated daily writing, Ahmad spinning the drill to spark an ember despite the difficulty of this task, Anousheh splashing as though she’s a whale in the ocean, spilling water all over the floor and under into the basement where once it’s found inspires in turn looking at the pipes and tending to them so they don’t freeze, Isha and her meticulous embroideries, her bold style complete with large hats set at a jaunty angle, her sudden rampages rhinocerous style stampeding loudly through the house snorting as she goes, Jasper asking whether baddies are scared of light, what kind of light, even his super power light inside? Michael up and down the mountain bringing tales of the outside world up, and our world down, usnea, chickadees and apple trees, the color of fish under water, the reflection of sky and trees on top, travelling, dreams come to life, a word, a gesture, a song, the taste of spring on my tongue, pink clouds swirling around a full white moon, and on and on, the whats and whos that inspire.

As I dive into the long listing, there comes a spark of, shall I say, inspiration, that speaks of something else entirely, a thread common to all the whats and whos that has nothing to do with the whats and whos themselves but has to do more with this::relationship and response, these are at the heart, at the core of where inspiration lives, inside me . . . my relationship with the universe I occupy, my response to my surroundings as well as to my own interiority, how I engage, relate with, reciprocate are all the source of inspiration, moving as spirit inside where it sparks, kindles, flares, rises, dwindles depending on how the outside and inside come into relationship.

The glass of water is not acting to inspire me, thus is not engaged in an act inspiring, it is what it is, a glass of water. Layla writing at her desk, nibbling her pencil, tongue tip out to one side is not engaged to inspire, though she is certainly engaged with her own inspiration. None of what is inspiring to me is actively involved in being inspiring. It is from within that I am inspired, being inspired, fluctuate with inspiration. Thus the question of what inspires me lives not in the catalogued listing. These are the visible manifestations, the encounters relatable that speak of where I’ve found inspiration, what and who I’m inspired by.

At the core lives this::I inspire me. That is to say, I don’t inspire myself, as a person or a who separate from me. Yet I inspire me, as in, the potential to be inspired comes from inside me, not outside, thus I as a being am response able for my inspiration. Through being in relationship, my orbit turning with the universe and all its inhabitants also orbiting, from stones to seeds to stars to spirals, it is my involvement that inspires. Inspiration is thus a solitary act, yet it is all encompassing in that it is an engagement of me, the whole of my embodied self with senses and organs and feelings and thoughts, extending beyond me, uniting me with all that is, and being inspired is a state reflective of whether spirit flowing through me is circulating outward, inward, giving, receiving, inhaling, exhaling.

At the core of me lives this: inspiration brings me together with what I’m inspired by. While a solitary act, it dissolves the illusion of separateness, disseminating myself into all that is when I participate and partake of, and vice versa. Every inhalation, I absorb air joining with what it carries, exhaling I give of myself absorbed by trees, they partake of me . . . they may not be inspired by my breathing the way I am inspired by, which gives me pause to ponder::is knowing how you’re being inspired also then an act involving thinking and observing that requires separation in order to perceive while simultaneously being joined with everything as an entity within a whole that has nothing to do with inspiration? When I return to thinking about . . . the very thinking ‘about’ removes the about as a subject separate from self . . . how can you think ‘about’ unless you move a step away from, place distance between self and ‘it’? Being inspired is one portion, one that unites, knowing that which inspires is another portion that separates, so there’s dispersal with wholeness as well as duality, a going away and coming back, simultaneous at times.

Is knowing of value? To know where my inspiration lives, how does this mean something, anything, nothing? Does knowing matter? Without knowing, I’m inspired whether or not I know, yet knowing comes upon me without my looking for it, it’s just there, perhaps as a reflection of the movement between communion and separation? So the less I know, does that indicate the more I’m inhabiting and relating in communion? Or is this being human a state in which both occur and it’s choice that defines the edges you walk, how you walk them? Or is it that being human is circular, in that it is at once capable of unifying with all, while also entering a state of duality through which to be aware of itself, perceive itself, know itself, apply faculties such as thinking to itself as both the one observed and the observer, which in turn is how to be human is being aware, through this dance with distance from oneself simultaneous with joining?

It’s kind of like pulling apart oneself in a state not made of matter, yet while perceiving this way one sees the threads of self coming away from each other to be examined for what they are, plucking at the threads to feel them, know them, understand them . . . to do this though one is no longer in the threads anymore but has somehow separated from the weaving that also makes one up, how can this be? To be the woven, the weaving, and the weaver?

The longer one remains separated, the easier it becomes to remain at a distance and then one forgets that one was part of the whole to begin with::be it the whole self, or a whole self that’s part of the whole universe, the separation that we humans are capable of also comes with that price, akin perhaps to shifting into bearskin for too long until eventually one forgets their humanity and gets either stuck in or believing that they are bear and doesn’t understand that the yearning they follow, seek out the source of, is really just a yearning to re-enter themselves and unite, is really just the call from what is in that no-matter space to come back come back come back home!

The question of inspiration is on the move. When I move with the question, enter inspiration and drink from it, then these thoughts and questions bubble up even though they don’t inspire me yet they don’t detract from my being inspired either. They simply rise, from some fluid place inside; swelling and popping up asking to be heard, tasking me with listening. Inspired as I am, I tend to them within spirits circle, sometimes stalking the question, sometimes grazing on it, sometimes flying away from it and sighting it in differently, sometimes squeezing it with my fingers and feeling the shape of it. When I do this, move with questions, move into discovering answers, move around in a dance with questions without wanting nor needing answers, I am sparked and rendered molten.

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