Inspiration

I could listen to George Winston play Pachelbel's Canon over and over. He is amazing and that is one of my favorite pieces of classical music. Every time I hear it, I am thrown into a fantasy world of flowers and dancing. Every time I hear it, my creative juices flow and I have a million ideas I will never accomplish.

A few days ago I was finishing up a lecture series by Clarissa Pinkola Estes and she said something about inspiration that had me thinking for a time. I can't remember it exactly and trying to find a quote in the midst of an audio lecture is next to impossible, and interestingly this particular work of hers is not found quoted on the Internet, so....I digress, she says something along the lines that those things we find inspirational are guides to what we should be learning to do, what we should spend our time focusing on. Look at the people who inspire you and think about what it would take for you to follow their footsteps.

My first thought was that nothing inspires me, but of course this is an absolute falsehood and something I tell myself so that I can remain depressed and living within my comfort zone. My second thought was that I could never be as great as the people who inspire me. I don't need to be making an attempt at doing what they have already done so well. Dr. Estes addresses this as well, with a poem:

I AM NOT NEEDED THERE … FIRE, GIVE ME FIRE!


I am not needed.
There are enough scholars
arguing both or all sides of everything.
(I always laugh when I hear about “equal time”
as though there are only two sides.
There are thousands of sides to everything.)
I am not needed there.


There are enough etymologists.
There are others who can use the beautiful words
like nosology, tautology,
eschatology, exegesis, and omphalos—
(not to mention syzygy)
even though only five-thousand people worldwide
know what those words really mean.
I am not needed there.


There are ever so many beautiful singers,
whose voices are sweet or clear or powerful.
And though I love to feel them play my bones,
I am not needed there either.


There are more than enough people busy
stirring the pot, taking the high road,
knowing all the short cuts,
calling more cooks to supervise the broth,
adding more coals to the fire.
There are more than enough
who spin evolutionary ideas,
who add more to the heap,
who fill everything that needs filling,
and who are emptying
all the things that they believe are in dire
need of emptying.

There are enough rolling stones,
enough birds in the bushes
(though far fewer in the hand).
There are enough of all these.
I am not needed there.


But down at the back of the house at dark,
leaning over the great stone sharpening wheel,
my old broken shoes fitted to the rusted pedals,
I can make my legs go forever.
I can make my legs go forever.
I can make my legs go forever.


I press the steel blade
of every dull knife—
not hard against hard,
but tender against hard, just right—
against this spinning stone. I make
fly everywhere in the night,
showers of sparks, the little fires
that catch often enough,
and just right
on various dry old tears,
and old useless memories
stacked as crisp papers
in some forlorn attic
under the hairline soffits or
in the cornices of the heart.


And this fire
sets ablaze whatever is needing
warmth…
This fire sets ablaze
And burns away
whatever is no longer needed.


Here I have found my place.
Here, I have found my place.
Here I am needed
at this great stone wheel
that cannot turn by itself,
but only by the bones and blood
of the hands and the legs
that can hold to it,
that can hold to it,
that can hold to it.
Working long, tiring, resting,
Working long, tiring, resting,
Working long, tiring, resting,
coming back
once more.


Fire! Give me fire!
More! Fire!
Again!
Again!

… Showers of sparks, everywhere!

I listened to this poem and found myself thinking that I still wasn't needed anywhere. This is how I know when I am feeling depressed.

I let it go. I moved on to something else. And then in the early morning hours this morning, I had woken up and felt the urge to listen to Pachelbel's Canon. And as usual all of my juices began flowing. I realized where my inspiration lies and I realize that I am making excuse after excuse not to do the hard work of honing my skills for my calling.

J's dad made a comment last night, that he didn't realize J could play the piano so well. The piece that got that remark is one that J plays three or four times a day and has for more than a year. This is an inspiration to me.

I read a ton of books, again, inspirations.

I love looking at photography online, inspirations.

Thomas Merton, Richard Feynman, Albert Einstein...inspirations.

When I stop trying to compare myself, when I put aside my fear and my competitiveness, I can find the million inspirations I have.

Now, to put in the work to accomplish my calling.

What are your inspirations? Where do they lead you?

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