Where do ideas come from?
You may have decided you would like to write, or paint, or undertake any creative practice, but white space stares back at you from the paper, or the canvas, or the screen, and your mind feels as blank as the page.
What helps me is to begin. That means deciding to fill up a page – not trying to accomplish anything grand, or anything specific – showing up at the page and filling it. Often I do this outside, and often I end up writing about the things I see around me. Sometimes, as I do sisomething catches my attention.
This time, it was the seed-heads of the honesty.
The seedheads are drying.
They were purple green, fleshy,
lit up dancing by the summer sun,
and now they are thin, and dark,
like the cratered moon seen
through thick smoke,
or burnt paper with
smudged, forgotten words.
And now, as they dry,
the seedheads rattle and split,
shucked by the north wind,
shedding one half of themselves,
the darker half, those thin circles
rolling over the green lawn.
What is left is shining like
an open shell, glowing
in low light like
so many clear moons
caught in a white net.
Now, they are showing
pale and lovely at last.