It’s been an interesting week, with lots of meals and consultations with friends and kids, assessment of when to leave Venice for home (likely next week), time at the beach and pool, new work possibilities, and more.
In parallel, Raphaella and I have been listening over the last couple of weeks to a 3-CD set called Creative Fire by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. It’s had me exploring my own creativity and observing while spending time with two different painters. And, I’ve been reading books with magic in them. And experiencing almost daily thunderstorms. And reading a mystical book called The Seven Valleys. The result of the whole mix of stuff is the essay below, which was amazing to write. Enjoy!
Love,
Susanne
Creative Magic
By Susanne Mariella Alexander
What is this magic that flows from fingers, hearts, and minds? The spark of genius or illumination at the point of talent that creates something new to reach from soul to soul? What robbing, destructive words—I’m not a writer or I’m not an artist—that make the soul bleed and the magic stop?
What words are mine or the universe’s, what painting is hers or God’s, what flower is other than God’s? And yet, presented from the souls of people blessed and giving. How do I listen to what there is to write or for her what there is to paint? How easy it is to create static and noise and busyness that shuts out the precious flow. What gives us the right to ignore or demean the soul-voice within that needs our care, respect? How hard it is to shelter flowers from the storm. To let them grow and blossom, live and die. To then let the storm swirl as it must to blow the old and useless free. To feel the magic in the lightning’s jagged slash. To feel grateful that God’s in charge and lets us feel the power in the thunder’s boom. I’m restless, wondering, feeling happy, sad, angry, joyful, scared, yearning. What am I meant to conduit, what magic is latent in my fingertips? I feel the symphony crashing in my ears, the power in the thousands of blended and discordant notes.
Sometimes I trust my heart to know what words are on the way, but often my head decides the content in its place. I watch her soul pour out its journey on the canvas. I watch the flowers reach their bloom of beauty. Is there really a choice of feeling the magic and creating the spell? The swirl of the mist in the crystal ball that says the words are just around the corner? The stroke of the brush that hangs suspended in the air above the canvas? The flower waiting to burst from the tightly folded bud? Magical and mysterious the illumination of our souls, the light that shines almost in spite of us.
My heart is confused, uncertain, waiting for the words to come. There’s magic in the air tonight, love holds its fiery breath. There are elves afoot or faeries’ wings perhaps. I know not what the power really is, the fire, and yet without its touch I’m alone, forgotten, abandoned. The burn to try, the burn to dream, the burn to be in the swirl of that power. It’s part of me…and yet it’s not. Connected, integrated, and yet it’s free. Full of light, but masked when with stabs of darkest black, my will finds its way and I forget to channel.
My boat is glorying in the highest crashing waves, the sudden troughing drop, the temper of the skies. And yet there’s hope for serene waters after dawn. What spell is on my soul tonight that leaves me wondering, reaching? What words dance beyond my fingertips, tantalizing, stretching? I rarely know, the truth would say. When they are best, I just open, and they come. How could they really be “mine”? How could it be “her” painting? How could they, and the flower, not simply all be God’s? We arrogantly place our names and initials and labels, because we are trained to own. And yet, I suppose it’s also being responsible for the gifts and who they touch.
True magic is not a random act, nor can it deliberately cause harm. It simply feels and flows and reaches out. It comes, it grows, it knows. It trusts the whispered voice, the heavenly chuckle, the assertion that the Spirit-World waits impatiently…or patiently…for us to agree to accept what it so freely gives. The communing thought, the butterfly touch, the flying wings of inspiration that heaven pours. How dare we disrespect this sacred space? What must I do to soar in the “holy air of light”?
I run, I pace, I pound, I’m heavy, I’m light, I’m full of grace. I race after the dragonfly that darts just out of reach. I’m onward, sideward, backward, upside down. Sometimes I simply forget that if I pause and breathe and float and glide and be still, the dragonfly will land on me and converse in a language loftier than the clouds, achingly lovelier than an orchid, softer than a promise. I simply have to open up my heart and smile and listen and share.
I catch a glimpse, tantalizing, clear. The light seems to fill the cells of my body and the essence of my soul. My heart glows with heat and power. I hold the love so near. What is this mystery…I suppose if I knew and understood it would no longer be so magical, so dazzling, so beautiful. The wisdom of the mystery keeps my fingers on the keys instead of soaring and accepting the soaring words as enough…for now. For this is the gift. What has to go onward. It is not a shackle, although at times it feels full with heaviness. It is not the hardness of diamonds but instead the purple of royal amethysts. It is not the thorn-pathed pampered rose but perhaps the sunny daisy mixed with the courage of the spring crocuses pushing through the snow and the summer hardiness of the golden marigolds. It is the joy of the blooming mixed with the sorrow of the faded, drooping blooms. It is the perfect note held for an endless breath of time and the slash of bleeding red ink from the editor’s pen or the crumpled paint-filled page. Sometimes the inner critic sticks its killing knife into every effort and makes it hard to live while bleeding. Sometimes the pain is too much to keep on creating. It is life and death, peace and war, symphonies and endless, necessary scales. It is thrill and despair, darkness and light to write, to paint, to create. It is a choice, without a choice. It is dwelling in “the holy air of light”.
Without the ability to express, the light of love is faded, drab, and cooled. One wonders in scared moments whether creativity is gone forever. It takes faith to trust when it goes dormant that it’s only resting and germinating. To not force the light to touch the baby seeds and sprouts underneath the darkened ground. To know with complete confidence that the gift is not gone, just pausing to breathe…and becoming ready to grow. This is the challenge: to release the fear, to know there will be a time, to banish the panic, to be certain the process is wise. Because creativity is sacred, it cannot be destroyed. When something is sacred, letting it flow feels like swimming “in the sea of the spirit” and soaring “in the holy air of light”…and creating magic.
* The quotations are from Bahá’u’lláh, The Seven Valleys, pp. 27-28
In parallel, Raphaella and I have been listening over the last couple of weeks to a 3-CD set called Creative Fire by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. It’s had me exploring my own creativity and observing while spending time with two different painters. And, I’ve been reading books with magic in them. And experiencing almost daily thunderstorms. And reading a mystical book called The Seven Valleys. The result of the whole mix of stuff is the essay below, which was amazing to write. Enjoy!
Love,
Susanne
Creative Magic
By Susanne Mariella Alexander
What is this magic that flows from fingers, hearts, and minds? The spark of genius or illumination at the point of talent that creates something new to reach from soul to soul? What robbing, destructive words—I’m not a writer or I’m not an artist—that make the soul bleed and the magic stop?
What words are mine or the universe’s, what painting is hers or God’s, what flower is other than God’s? And yet, presented from the souls of people blessed and giving. How do I listen to what there is to write or for her what there is to paint? How easy it is to create static and noise and busyness that shuts out the precious flow. What gives us the right to ignore or demean the soul-voice within that needs our care, respect? How hard it is to shelter flowers from the storm. To let them grow and blossom, live and die. To then let the storm swirl as it must to blow the old and useless free. To feel the magic in the lightning’s jagged slash. To feel grateful that God’s in charge and lets us feel the power in the thunder’s boom. I’m restless, wondering, feeling happy, sad, angry, joyful, scared, yearning. What am I meant to conduit, what magic is latent in my fingertips? I feel the symphony crashing in my ears, the power in the thousands of blended and discordant notes.
Sometimes I trust my heart to know what words are on the way, but often my head decides the content in its place. I watch her soul pour out its journey on the canvas. I watch the flowers reach their bloom of beauty. Is there really a choice of feeling the magic and creating the spell? The swirl of the mist in the crystal ball that says the words are just around the corner? The stroke of the brush that hangs suspended in the air above the canvas? The flower waiting to burst from the tightly folded bud? Magical and mysterious the illumination of our souls, the light that shines almost in spite of us.
My heart is confused, uncertain, waiting for the words to come. There’s magic in the air tonight, love holds its fiery breath. There are elves afoot or faeries’ wings perhaps. I know not what the power really is, the fire, and yet without its touch I’m alone, forgotten, abandoned. The burn to try, the burn to dream, the burn to be in the swirl of that power. It’s part of me…and yet it’s not. Connected, integrated, and yet it’s free. Full of light, but masked when with stabs of darkest black, my will finds its way and I forget to channel.
My boat is glorying in the highest crashing waves, the sudden troughing drop, the temper of the skies. And yet there’s hope for serene waters after dawn. What spell is on my soul tonight that leaves me wondering, reaching? What words dance beyond my fingertips, tantalizing, stretching? I rarely know, the truth would say. When they are best, I just open, and they come. How could they really be “mine”? How could it be “her” painting? How could they, and the flower, not simply all be God’s? We arrogantly place our names and initials and labels, because we are trained to own. And yet, I suppose it’s also being responsible for the gifts and who they touch.
True magic is not a random act, nor can it deliberately cause harm. It simply feels and flows and reaches out. It comes, it grows, it knows. It trusts the whispered voice, the heavenly chuckle, the assertion that the Spirit-World waits impatiently…or patiently…for us to agree to accept what it so freely gives. The communing thought, the butterfly touch, the flying wings of inspiration that heaven pours. How dare we disrespect this sacred space? What must I do to soar in the “holy air of light”?
I run, I pace, I pound, I’m heavy, I’m light, I’m full of grace. I race after the dragonfly that darts just out of reach. I’m onward, sideward, backward, upside down. Sometimes I simply forget that if I pause and breathe and float and glide and be still, the dragonfly will land on me and converse in a language loftier than the clouds, achingly lovelier than an orchid, softer than a promise. I simply have to open up my heart and smile and listen and share.
I catch a glimpse, tantalizing, clear. The light seems to fill the cells of my body and the essence of my soul. My heart glows with heat and power. I hold the love so near. What is this mystery…I suppose if I knew and understood it would no longer be so magical, so dazzling, so beautiful. The wisdom of the mystery keeps my fingers on the keys instead of soaring and accepting the soaring words as enough…for now. For this is the gift. What has to go onward. It is not a shackle, although at times it feels full with heaviness. It is not the hardness of diamonds but instead the purple of royal amethysts. It is not the thorn-pathed pampered rose but perhaps the sunny daisy mixed with the courage of the spring crocuses pushing through the snow and the summer hardiness of the golden marigolds. It is the joy of the blooming mixed with the sorrow of the faded, drooping blooms. It is the perfect note held for an endless breath of time and the slash of bleeding red ink from the editor’s pen or the crumpled paint-filled page. Sometimes the inner critic sticks its killing knife into every effort and makes it hard to live while bleeding. Sometimes the pain is too much to keep on creating. It is life and death, peace and war, symphonies and endless, necessary scales. It is thrill and despair, darkness and light to write, to paint, to create. It is a choice, without a choice. It is dwelling in “the holy air of light”.
Without the ability to express, the light of love is faded, drab, and cooled. One wonders in scared moments whether creativity is gone forever. It takes faith to trust when it goes dormant that it’s only resting and germinating. To not force the light to touch the baby seeds and sprouts underneath the darkened ground. To know with complete confidence that the gift is not gone, just pausing to breathe…and becoming ready to grow. This is the challenge: to release the fear, to know there will be a time, to banish the panic, to be certain the process is wise. Because creativity is sacred, it cannot be destroyed. When something is sacred, letting it flow feels like swimming “in the sea of the spirit” and soaring “in the holy air of light”…and creating magic.
* The quotations are from Bahá’u’lláh, The Seven Valleys, pp. 27-28
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Oh, Suz, I can feel your spirit growing stronger each day, along with that familiar strong writing voice to share it with others. Thanks for sharing this, and I'm REALLY looking forward to seeing you again soon, to continue our fascinating and fulfilling years-long conversation.
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