Yet I've been entirely silent this past month, at least in my little personal blogosphere.
Some of that silence came from practical challenges. More of it came from creative fire. It was one of those months when ideas came fast and confusions became clear. The inner work I did with joy and fervor didn't produce much in the way of external results. At least, not yet. But I'm confident that it will, and in a variety of ways.
There are times—many times—in creative lives that are dedicated to actual work. There are also times for creative re-visioning of the sort that is work, but doesn't produce work. I tend to feel a little nervous about the latter. There's too much traditional work ethic in me to trust them easily. Yet such times have been among the most powerful, the most transformative, of my life. One of them, in fact, made me a writer.
The mid-March date today reminds me of the daffodil bulbs of my Northern childhood. Invisible all year, the vivid green shoots would suddenly appear, in greater profusion than the year before and often in places we didn't remember ever planting a bulb.
At the point when the yard or the hill were dotted with yellow flutes, they seemed as unearned and mysterious as magic. That's how long ago and far away the boring, back-bending work of bulb planting seemed.
But at that time of planting, the eventual appearance of flowers seemed just as unreal, just as unlikely. How could it be, that hiding these rustling little brown onions into the earth would produce those bursts of life so many months and seasons later?
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