Sometimes when blessing are consistent or readily available we take them for granted, or at least we fail to acknowledge the avenue though which we receive them. For example, to the seasoned artist the act of creation becomes almost involuntary, akin to the act of breathing. Indeed, it becomes so common place that it is rarely analyzed, and even then it is hard to describe. But take away every creative outlet, and one's attentions begin to focus on that missing miraculous phenomenon.
That is where I currently find myself. Never have I experienced such a dearth creatively. Not by reason of any mental block, but by virtue of having no time to devote to such pursuits. Life calls and I rush to it. Howbeit, in this aesthetic silence the wonder and nature of art becomes even more apparent.
In my musings I am lead again to the realization that the marvels of the sentient realm cannot be emphasized enough. Likewise, the miners of awareness cannot be celebrated enough. These are they which probe the featureless void to excavate portals of possibility. Indeed, these worm holes of imagination open bridges into alternate universes where ethereal objects exist, but have yet to transition into the material world.
While each artist becomes familiar with their respective portals, and the unique keys fashioned to unlock their treasures, the shared experience of that process runs deep in the artist community. Indeed, in my own life I've become familiar with myriad portals, especially those that I frequent often. Herein, summoning one's powers to transition between worlds becomes effortless.
To illustrate the truth of these fanciful assertions, imagine a world without any creative process. A realm wherein things only exist as they are. No inventions, no adaptations, no new ideas, or applications. No new tastes, smells, sounds, music, rhymes, rhythms, sequences, colorations, textures, forms, motions, etc. Indeed, by virtue of your own imagination even the idea of that dull grisaille world comes into view.
Now consider the colorful world in which we live. We inhabit a world of ever blossoming creativity. Not just in terms of aesthetic beauty, but practical inventions, adaptations, applications, and new combinations: new flavors, scents, timbres, melodies, harmonies, rhythms, etc. Can you imagine a world void of these marvels?
Moreover, can you imagine a species void of imagination? Unable to learn new things intuitively. Unable to invent, think outside the box, or creatively problem solve. Indeed, imagine a species wherein all knowledge was simply a genetic inheritance, passing from one generation to the next. Can you imagine the stagnant, slow evolutionary pace of such a hobbled species? Indeed, would we even consider them intelligent?
Regardless of how highly endowed, such a species would have profound limitations? On the other hand, consider the nature of human intelligence. We progress from the virtual blank slate of infancy, to capable, inventive, strategic, intelligent beings in just a few decades, absorbing mass quantities of new information, adaptations, strategy, etc. Indeed, humans are profoundly creative--in similitude of the Divine. Our creative abilities seem reminiscent of fabled supernatural powers. We seem to be able traverse time, gaze into the future, astral project to other realms, and bring back rightful plunder. We enter these "promised lands" through portals of imagination. Once envisioned, we return with the fruits of optimism and taste the blissful prelude of future materialization.
For example, consider the exceptional nature of what the Wright brothers envisioned, the strength of their imagination, the certitude of their optimism--fueling the work required to materialize the far-fetched possibility of human flight into a concrete reality. Indeed, it's as if they saw our time and returned with spoils from the future.
So it is with every inventor, artist, or creator. They mine awareness, looking for new veins of imagination and creativity. Herein, the auteur lays rightful claim to mystic portals, even though they labor to share their find with the world. Nevertheless, the location of their mother-load remains secret. It is only known to the artist, inventor and/of creator. Indeed, where is the wellspring that Shakespeare drew from? The oracle which Mozart tapped into? The crystal that Michael Angelo gazed through to see David encased in a prison of stone? Where is the metaphysical bridge which Newton traversed to observe the attraction of celestial orbs? These can only be found in the topography of mind.
How strongly we connect with that nether world. Indeed, it seems strange that we could ever be lured away from its beauty. Nevertheless, time passes and I visit these portals less and less--evoking a strange sense of guilt and abandonment.
I have not created anything in months, for life calls. And yet, as I run to my children's side, I see something in their eyes familiar and mysterious at the same time. Indeed, at this very moment I recognize the oracles that God has opened up in them. Materializations of the Divine. Cosmic portals whereby to glimpse the Supernal. Hence, as a father I am entrusted as their curator.
How juvenile my art seems in comparison. Every day splayed before my eyes are the works of the Master--the innocence of children, pollenating the world with hope from the other side. Such transcendence! Indeed, the canopy of heaven is mere finger painting in comparison. But life, sentient life, is a masterpiece filled with ever blossoming creativity. Where are words to describe such things?
As children of the Divine we gaze confidently into the featureless void. There are portals awaiting our discovery. Pry open the vault of imagination. Exercise your powers. Pull back the curtain of doubt to reveal endless doorways of possibility. Yet never forget life. Never forget your soulscape. And above all, never forget your collaboration with the Divine. Create, Curate, and Collaborate.
