It’s amazing what comes to mind when we allow enough silence and space into our lives to catch our intuitive musings. Recently, for instance, a friend of mine from Wyoming, author Tamara Linse, posted a picture on Facebook of a leaf that was showing signs of autumn color. A hint of red, drying edges. I glanced at it and without conscious thought these words came to me: “Ah, and so the tree bares its soul in autumn.”
An intuitive flash. A creative insight. Words that were poetic.
I could have “thought” all day and not come up with that exact phrase. But I was “listening” to my spiritual dimension — to my intuition. As though catching a butterfly, I grabbed the words, typed them quickly, lest they be forgotten as quickly as they were discovered. This is another reason I am a writer, a poet. The pure joy of working with a creative intelligence each day takes me beyond ordinary awareness; it’s like working with a spiritual energy that flows from another world entirely. It gives me pause. It fills me with wonder.
I saw old autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence. ~ Thomas Hood
Last autumn I took this picture when visiting my son’s grave. This enormous and regal tree is directly behind him. No matter the season, the tree is there as reassurance of something more. As a reminder that all seasons in life are temporary. And the patch of early yellow could not have been more vivid.
Take some time this autumn to let your intuition speak to you. Let me know what comes to you when least expected — what magical words or deeply profound ideas surface. There is something about fall that draws us inward. What is it?
No Spring nor Summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face.
~ John Donne
Today I’m also working on some creative nonfiction, an essay, so I’ll be watching for those flashes of inspiration that occur with some frequency when we allow it. When we are willing to trust the process. I’ve written most of the essay this week, but have no idea how I will end the piece. I could worry about it or analyze it (there is a deadline I’m trying to meet), or maybe I’ll just take a walk — be with nature for a while — then return to my computer eagerly waiting for my final paragraph. It will likely be a surprise. Because usually it’s impossible to plan the ending to any work of art … we only get in the way with too much “mind” … too much “self” intruding.
So I’ll step back for a few hours, and hopefully, discover what the essay is really about. Wait for the piece, like autumn leaves, to bare its soul.
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