Whether speaking or writing, we can soon come across an inability to find the precise words we want to share.
The stream dries up; all seems lifeless. We find ourselves parched, staring at barren ground and bare bones, our thoughts like twisted twigs.
The Muse seems elusive and unkind some days, or so we say – although she is really a mere figment in our minds.
A reason to hang our excuses upon as we scramble around for words vanishing in the ether.
Inspiration deserts us and we hover over paper or PC with fingers itching to release… only to come up empty.
What do we do when words drift away?
I’ve found that resting, relaxing and praying help enormously.
All inspiration is God-given and a gift of grace.
Because some days? Some days we’re too plumb tired to plumb the depths to extract the exact words we want.
So we pretend not to care for a while, switch off, engage ourselves with new pursuits, or give in to the need to pull back, seek some spiritual whitespace.
And in the quiet contemplation, in the resting in God’s presence, in the slowing down and stressing less we find we can tap into the Source of Life Himself and He begins to fill and flood our minds with lively thoughts once more.
Maybe a seeping through, a slow filter, a line or two, but then it begins to flow again.
We can breathe easy. Speak, write and type as God directs, comfortable in His provision and timing.
Because words will rise easy when God decides they need to and they’re ready to share.
Our part is to stay expectant, listen to our lives and all they are saying to us, listen for God’s voice and remain open to inspiration.
Then my friends, we give thanks, we speak, we write, we pour out our offering and we trust God to use it as He wills.
And we remember that God has an inexhaustible supply of words He desires to impart to waiting hearts.
Last night I was considering why I hadn’t written much poetry recently. There are lots of good and obvious reasons why my mind has needed a rest, not least that I’m currently staying with family.
Then a line or two insinuated itself into my mind, and this is how it ended up…
Poetry can act capriciously
especially if we try
to pack her into a
little rhyme or two,
or wrestle words onto
a page, she’s apt to fly
into a sullen rage
Although she has been known
to demur when called upon
to assist us in a song
And will indeed, sometimes,
be cajoled into a line
which, for better or worse,
becomes joined into a verse
And even though poetry
will not easily or
willingly bend the knee to me
or resists staying around
when I try to pin her down,
I find if I keep an open door
and open mind, she will return
with an offering – or more