A Luminous rain of thought

Order, as the world would have it, lives elsewhere.
The ready-made paths no longer fit my feet.
I do not wish to follow rules pre-written,
nor do things in the so-called “right” way.

I am a weaver,
a spark-catcher.

My inner blaze wakes me at night,
whispering joy in the language of inspiration.
I love illogical things,
and—like sparrows darting in our hawthorn hedge—
the flitting from one idea to the next.

Though my body slows,
a force still pulses in me—
a longing for everything,
and from that longing
my creativity rises,
my art,
which refuses to wait
for the perfect moment,
the perfect skill,
the perfect plan.

I begin.
I try.
I stir.
I blend.
I make a mess.

I take steps back,
two forward and one to the side—
and from each of them, I learn.
Often only later do I see:
it was always meant to be this way.

There are wrinkles in my hands now,
but in them too,
a new strength—
the power to give creativity a voice that can be seen.

Though my body ages before my eyes,
my heart grows ever younger,
more curious.

Ready to fall in love
with the world,
with life—
every single day,
again and again.

When I no longer let my creativity hide
in shame or self-doubt,
my unfinishedness becomes
a shimmer of light
for those who fear being seen
before they are “ready.”

But I don’t want to be ready.

I want to be alive.
Here.
Now.

Through my voice,
my hands,
and all the colors I carry.

My creativity asks for no permission.
It grants it.
It lets my thoughts fall
from a bright sky
like a downpour.

To become living puddles,
skipping brooks—
my self flowing into
the ocean that is everything.