That curious thing we call "Inspiration"

Whilst I was painting the other day my daughter who is nine years old came to watch then she asked me the simple and exhausted question anyone who is interested in art might ask “where do you get your inspiration?”

Some questions children pose entice an eternal search and incessant theories, such as the classic “so, if God created the world, where did God come from?” usually posed by children between the age of five to eight and baffling geniuses, brilliant physicists and philosophers since the beginning of time.

 

Inspiration is a curious thing. I can’t say that inspiration comes solely from the mind, because the mind is ever thinking and never satisfied, but I can’t say it is something from the soul or the body either, all human bodies are the same, and the soul remains a mysterious intangible force, inspiration is most likely what the heart sees with its own eyes and not the ones in the two sockets just below our foreheads. Inspiration is a vision which we do not perceive by our five senses; inspiration is gift nature gives to those who are patient, to those who suffer and hope, to those follow their bliss bravely without a glimpse of that light at the end of the tunnel.

“You do not need to leave your room.

Remain sitting at your table and listen.

Do not even listen. Simply wait.

Do not even wait. Be quiet, still and solitary.

The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked.

It has no choice. It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” Franz Kafka

أنا و ظِلالُكَ

أحاولُ أن أجادلَ ظِلالُكَ مستميلة ًعطفه

 لقد مرّت سنوات طويلة، لماذا تُصِرُّ على البقاء؟

منزوياً على طَرِفِ الفراش، يُديرُ ظهرهُ إليُّ بينما ترتجفُ شمعة وتحترقُ في احدى الزوايا

لا أبواب ولا أسوار تمنعك من الرحيل..

أودُّ لو.. تتخلى عنيّ، كي أقدرَ أن.. أتخلىّ عنك

مُعلناً بسكوتهِ و تجاهلهُ لي أن محاولاتي قد فشلت من جديد

كلانا يعلم أن بعض الأرواح رتّبت لقاءها في حياة أخرى سابقة قبل بدء هذه الحياة

ولما استنفذت هذه الدنيا عطاؤها، وما أن علمت تلك الأرواح أنها لا تملكُ شيئاً لتخسره

صارت كل منهما تبحثُ وتنقِّبُ عن الأخرى، وفي اصطدام عنيفٍ مدوٍ جامح

التقت، متحديّة كل القوانين والأعراف، و دمرّت كل منهما الأخرى ميقنة أن الحب لا شيء سوى ألمٌ وعذاب  

تقضيان الأبد باحثتان عن البديل من دون أيِّ جدوى 

masturbation

not understanding why she was told not to

not understanding why she was made to feel shame

she dared to climb on top of the kitchen counter

open the forbidden cupboard, stand on her tiptoes

reach her hand for the jar of honey she was warned not to taste

she struggled to loosen the tight lid, when she finally cracked it open

all definitions of need, intimacy and desire had changed.  

Once upon a previous existence..

When I was a flower I knew. The bulb that contained me understood too. Perfect, wholesome and intact I was beneath the earth, there was no such thing as worry, haste or fear, everything in the infinite universe was there to help me grow, a specific amount of soil covered and nurtured me, an efficient cloud passed over me punctual and calculated in its provision of rain, the sun also watched over me. There was no hurry, there were no expectations to meet or mistakes to make, all I had to have was faith, then when the right moment came, I rose, lifting my head from under the ground, I did not compete, it did not matter what colour my blossom or how tall my stem, I did not compare my blooming, my development, or my beauty to other flowers. I flourished, the universe continuing to supply, support and sustain me without me requesting, needing or asking. I thrived, there was never a doubt where I belonged, never for a second a fear of the future, a sorrow from the past. I was attached to nothing and yet I was one with everything.

I saw that I was as indispensible as the moon, as vital as the trees that were wise and mighty, then when the right moment came I faded, I withered as majestically and as gracefully as when I first bloomed, I went back to my soul keeper, the bulb, I was perfectly folded once more, whole and intact all my features, purposes and reasons stored in my little cocoon nothing was lost, safe and sound I lay under the earth until my time comes again the following spring.

My therapist, the bathtub!

My therapist is excellent at what he does, he’s a great listener, he’s empathic, honest and compassionate, he’s (as far as I know) nonjudgmental, he’s thoughtful, understanding and genuinely funny! ‘Bonus’

So why then, despite all these advantageous characteristics, do I dread my sessions with him?

When I speak to my therapist I feel as though I am indulging in a warm bath, I feel relaxed, calm, I feel understood which makes me feel safe, warm and fuzzy on the inside. Talking to him and receiving his approving and sometimes perhaps less approving but still understanding nods soothes me, it pacifies my troubled mind, it gives me the peace and quiet I crave, that quiet of mind which to someone like me can be rare. Then our weekly hour is over and it’s time for me to go, the stepping out of my warm soothing bath into the cold, clammy, harsh and hurried reality, into a world not so compassionate, mixing with people not so empathic or understanding to my needs leaves me cold and alienated, my peace suddenly stripped from me, my quiet of mind robbed and I am ‘again’ making my way in the crowds of silent, stern, rigid faces and attitudes that rarely nod approvingly to me. I gain and regain so much of myself when I speak to my therapist, but I also (temporarily) lose a little, I lose an emotional agility which has for so long helped me survive the falsehood and cruelty of everyday life, it takes a kind of shifting of gear, a new adjusting and a fresh accepting of what is.

في الأيام العاصفة

في الأيام العاصِفة

تهبُّ أُنثى الرياح بجنون

متمردة، عاصية، ثائرة، غاضبة

بعد سكوتٍ وقنوطٍ طويلينِ

نَثرت وبَعثرت كل ما كان كامناً

 فكَّت جدائل سخطها

نَبَشت آلامها وأفشت عن أحزانها الدفينة

لا شيء حقاً يموتً

في الأيام العاصفة

كل الرغبات والأمنيات القديمة تتساقط من فوق الجدار التي

أحسنتُ بناءها لتحميني من الأشباح

كلُّ ما اصطنعته من هدوءٍ وسلامٍ تبعثر في الرياح

أغصانُ السنديان ترتجف ضحكاً، ساخرةً مستهزئةً بي

أنثى الرياح تهزُّني ، تُعنفني باكية: "لا فائدة من دفن الماضي.. لا شيء حقاً يموت"

On windy days

On windy days

lady nature is raving

delirious in her rage

all is brought back to the surface

she had been quiet for too long

letting loose her wrath

ploughing old hurt and buried grief

nothing ever really dies

On windy days

old nameless yearnings fall and shatter from

walls I carefully laid to keep my haunting demons at bay

all my hard earned peace and calm tossed in the wind

the tree shakes in hysterical laughter at me

on windy days lady nature reminds me

that the past remains, no use in burying the dead

nothing ever really dies