celtic art, Baraka, by David RankinThe act of creation is an act of watching and knowing.

It is a form of self-analysis; it calls you to be fully present in the act of creation, and to simultaneously witness your own process, without perhaps being sure of what the outcome will be.

Inspiration is about engaging in the “flow” of life. It is about engaging one’s own divine spark. It is about engaging one’s own humanity and being engaged by one’s own heart.

Anyone who has felt inspired to do something or to create something, will be familiar with the ease at which disparate elements seem to come together, ideas apparently pop out of nowhere, and the laws of time/space seem to be suspended. All is right with the world when the “flow” is there. We become part of the flow. We are the flow. When we are in this state we are experiencing what some people refer to as “flow awareness” – the place of free flowing creativity, seamless in action, word and intention.

It is not so much a state that must be built up or acquired, and more a place we fall back into. It was always there, we knew it as children. We simply have to find ways we can access it, easily and at will. It is not the exclusive realm of artists and other creative people, but the birthright of all humans. Inspiration (cause) and creativity (effect) are ours as naturally as breathing is.

This “flow” continues beyond us, in us and outside of us, outside of our bubbles of personal perception, bubbles that are often created for us by earlier generations, who were fearful of their own power or the power of others.

by David Rankine
See his art and find some of his music at www.DavidRankineArt.com
Article copyright © David Rankine.

One comment

  1. The moment, that “flow” or feeling as if you can hammer out gold from lead, is fleeting and flirting and surprising when it is present and damn frustrating when it is not.

    It beacons, and winks. We beg it “please, please stay.” But it disappears and retreats from our entreaties. It comes and it goes at the pleasure of no man and no woman.

    I once told a friend I’d heard Altan on an off night. And described the moment when they came back to life, sparked by the entrance of another musician.

    The deeper I dig, even in the drab stuff I do, the more able I feel prepared to wrestle again with my muse in sweet embrace. Things are put aside, but not abandoned in this work.

    Am I Altan, playing in my 40th city in as many nights? Or am I refreshed by the work, strengthened by the exercise and ready to battle the demons within, my muse at my side, clad in armour like a Viking princess of old?

    She calls me, “come, let us finish this.”

    And I reply, “not now.”

    For, when I come to her (and for me my muse is clearly a woman), the work will flow like a torrent. Nurtured and gestated in my mind, the anticipation of that moment is as sweet as love itself.

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