“the poet is at the disposal of the night” — Jean Cocteau
Inspiration does not fall from the sky, striking our heads during meditation. Instead, it explodes onto the scene of our everyday lives—while making breakfast, taking the dog for a walk, planting tulips, feeding the fish, or standing in line at Target. During that time our mind wanders somewhere else until inspiration shakes us back into its sublime compound, wringing its lifeforce up, into, through, and out of us. Writing a poem can be wearisome. Crafting a poem is patience, time, and work. An artist puts off the work of fine-tuning, and a writer puts off fine editing. It’s when we are not a fine tuner or editor that we might just get the whole poem or painting sitting on top of our heads waiting to be pulled down and drafted onto paper or canvas. That snapshot instance is a call from the sublime to not overwork the work but fine-tune the self. No fuss. No fret.