The Call of the Wild is My Muse
I’ve often resisted the word ‘muse’ in the past, as I have related it to bourgeois lifestyles — maybe something ‘elitist’ or luxuriant. In terms of the latter, is this a resistance of luxury, of pleasure, of indulgence? Is this the denial of self-permission, of self-expression? Is this me cowering from the permission to throw myself completely, wholeheartedly at something? And am I protecting myself, in survival — trying to keep myself safe (and therefore, frozen)?
Every time I’ve read the word ‘muse’, an inner stirring answers immediately that my muse has and always will be, nature. Life itself. I connect with it by taking walks along local trails, into woods and alongside rivers, walking my body into the sea or watching starlings with my son as we gather petals and leaves from the communal patch outside. But it isn’t always just ‘nature’ in that earth-sense, either — it includes humans, too (which of course, are a part of the ecosystem, but often missed out of the landscape when it comes to a lot of nature writing). Standing in a busy part of town, waiting and watching others go by; small bits of conversation, the way someone maneuveres themselves through the world; on buses as people chat to their neighbours — in cafe doorways where I get to know the barista’s life story; on lost cat posters taped to lampposts; even on Zoom calls when I watch someone scratch their neck or catch a glimpse of the bookshelves behind them. I connect to life by immersing myself fully in these moments (often, they are the smallest of things — the traces — like a box of brightly-coloured cupcakes smashed into the floor of some ancient trees). I notice, connect dots between things, and point things out — my mind archives it all together and often, I’ll carry ideas around for months if not years. Something I read will link up to something else, and sometimes ideas come with so much velocity that I have to scrabble to write them down in my phone on time, or on a piece of paper (and they almost always seem like they’re just ‘ordinary’, everyday subjects). I think that’s what my ‘job’ is to do — to explore the wonder in life, including the mundane.
I’m learning to appreciate this ‘force’ in my writing life by tuning-in more often; getting into the regular habit of noting things down, keeping the stream going and allowing myself that indulgence — to sink into those moments and find the electricity within them; to draw them together, take them apart, and archive them. To breathe deep and take the steps — push myself to explore, take myself on adventures, be open to experiences; allow myself to feel things and tell my fear that I don’t need protecting.
This is mostly an external energy, in terms of how new ideas or inspiration filters in to me. I feel like an old archive system, expanding all the time with all of these archaeological finds until it is absolutely necessary to write them out — to give them back out again. Like a library; things are always in circulation. I’m like a carrier, a vessel or container, that has to process these things in my own specific way, and then release them back to the rest of the world. Things fester inside; grow, develop, take over and sometimes even begin to fade or shrink with the weight of the rest of the unwritten pieces. Like a force bigger than anything I can comprehend, creativity is something pulling at me to release what I am storing — something greater than me that I don’t have control over (and this is where my internal resistance steps in, of course - to try to control it).
Does my muse, my creativity, notion transcendence? In terms of transcending resistance — yes. Sometimes it feels like transcending out of the human condition, of bypassing all of our self-constructed tribulations, emotions, problems and hang-ups, but other times its like diving into the acute nuclei of those things, to draw them to the surface, observing them and then transcending those too, in turn. Its like a constant refocusing, gaining a deeper understanding and relationship with life in order to be able to release it. In the smallest of increments, it is transcendence into nothingness, into the unknown space where none of this exists or matters — not some ‘going above’ but going in-between. Like a slow dissolving into interconnectivity, with life itself; the very essence of it — of returning to it.
It feels like a forging. Of certain words magnetising themselves to others; ideas stored for minutes with others kept for decades. It comes from being in those moments— it can be sporadic and lightning fast, but is often built on the roots and foundations of thinking, observing and connecting. It comes from opening myself up to experiences and risks and life. Then, allowing myself to fall out on to the page; to spill, to open, to pour and flow — like a river. The way I think and draw connections sounds like poetry in my mind; I notice the edges of things, and I could listen to it all day. I find everything fascinating. Its often been my downfall when it comes to focusing in on one particular thing, but actually its my own innate ability to find wonder and interest — to be curious. Its my curiosity. Pressure builds in my chest but its not directly from me that this comes from; its through my own engagement, my scrutiny, my analysis of the world — through the very direct contact with other life, other energy, that my own words come from. Writing is one of the most direct ways to channel this; to get my observations out quickly and as close to the ‘source’ as I can get them. Making art came close to this, too, but often became a difficult language to speak — I felt good, but sometimes the audience and the message got lost in conceptualisation. My work has always been about communication and dialogue between things; between people and the environment — how we literally and metaphorically make contact with things.
Even within my stuckness, even whilst being cooped up inside, I can find embers— it is my receptiveness to listen, to that pressure in my chest, or to the experience I’m having, that it comes. Its the focus itself — and then, channelling it back out again. Writing the experience down, in my own words, is what transforms it and unlocks it, even to me (there have been numerous times that I’ve recounted an experience through writing, and been overcome with emotion at finally processing it and letting it go). Its two stages: listening or focusing, and then releasing (which for me, is writing). I think the opportunity to create, to notice, is always available — inspiration and life is everywhere; it is a choice to listen to it, to tune-in, dig in, pull things out. It feels like an alignment, like the invisible wave of my own energy meeting those opportunities out there. When I’m aligned, it strikes like electric — through me, but with me — its a relationship, a symbiosis, a reciprocity.
It takes courage, openness and breath, but to explore interconnection in its truest depths, takes the whole self showing up, shaking and sweating, to merge with it all; to take our place, our space, that belongs to us and exists just like every opportunity around us. Always there, in every mundane, itchy, arousing, wondrous moment.
Thank you for taking the time to read my first Medium post! This was a response to the ‘May Writing Experience’ curated by Fiddleheads & Floss Poetry and Sky Collection. You can read more about it here.
