The world inspires me. The blueness of the sky and the stretch of the stars at night inspire me. The curve of two bodies bending close together inspire me. The rhythm of a poem inspires me. (Even now, a fragment from a spoken word piece reverberates inside me, something like, “there is nothing more beautiful than the ocean reaching to kiss the shore.”).
Inspiration is the spark that precedes the fires of creativity. It is the beginning of an idea. Like many artists, I feel that my work comes through me, that I am filled from an infinite Source, rather than being the Source. My well never runs dry, because it is not my well at all. This labor of love, in poetry and prose, in song and dance, in pastels staining my fingers a rainbow of colors, and all the non-traditional corners of math and science and child-rearing and house-building and a thousand others, is never-ending. As long as I show up to do the work, there is work waiting to be done. To be alive to the world in whatever I do is to live and inspired life.