An invocation to you,
Creator on the brink.
A poem by Janine Cirundulo.
Dearest creator or creatress,
Before you quit dreaming,
Don't.
Instead,
Remember why it is your birthright.
Remember why you started one day,
Once upon a time.
Remember what compelled you to express,
By making manifest the ideas that are your song.
Dearest god and goddess that you know you are,
Put away your staff of fire.
Destruction has its proper place,
But today you are birthing something grand and generous.
Let the currents of thought pour through you,
The vessel.
It is not hard work,
It is not effort.
If you struggle,
Back away.
If you are forcing it,
Take time to hibernate instead.
Listening is part of giving birth.
Living your life is part of shaping it.
Noticing,
Without taking a single action,
Is part of what it takes to make all things new.
Dear magic maker in the making,
I know it is a hard road sometimes.
I know it can feel like pulling teeth to find that flow.
But wonder is the way we know the world.
Awe is the way we know ourselves.
When you weave your worlds like that,
You touch my heart.
When you sing your song like that,
You melt my being.
When you get out of your own way so that what needs to be said can be said,
You are doing a great service.
You surrender to release a ribbon of truth and beauty that did not know itself until you gave it form.
You uncover worlds within you that were stewing uncontrollably,
Desiring to be manifested and heard.
The clogged pores of your soul begin to open when you release thoughts and expand their being.
Let the act of creating grace you with its presence.
Do not ask for it,
It will ask for you.
Listen to the way your name sounds on its tongue,
How much it loves you.
One day all the words fell silent.
One day all the canvases were blank.
One day you sat cradling your head in your hands and you wanted to throw in the towel.
Wrap yourself in it instead.
Let it warm you,
Sink into the embrace of loneliness and be still for a while.
Then,
When the quiet has had its turn,
It will surrender like all things do.
Just as the dusk becomes the dawn,
Not just once crossing this threshold,
But every night transforming over and over.
So too do you cycle through phases of pauses and growth.
I want to hear what you have to say.
Do you speak for your own expression?
Or do you begin with me in mind,
Picturing my adoring gaze upon your work?
Consolidate history in your sighs,
Etch the future you can dare create.
And then,
When the judge comes to the table with his gavel and beady scorning eyes,
Just smile at him.
He wants to protect you in the end.
He wants to make your offering the best that it can be.
He wants to save you from the scorn that may befall exposure.
But his seat is only warmed for so long.
When he has worn out his welcome,
Sit him in a corner facing the wall and let the children play.
They streak streams of color on the white walls and throw their heads back with peals of delightful and delighted laughter.
You are the prisoner dressed in black.
You are the goddess bedecked in rose petals.
You are the chalice offering eternal life.
You are the wilting leaf on a hot day.
Your salvation lies here,
In the way you whisper life into tomorrow.
The day who understands you and promises never to forget.
This existence knows you better than anyone.
Better than your lover,
Better than God,
Better than yourself.
Well,
Maybe not better than God.
He listens when you write and it pleases him.
She softens at the touch of your transformation and it eases her.
Become ashes today when you author your own story.
Become the phoenix who abandons itself recklessly to the flame.
Do not resist.
Do not struggle.
Simply surrender.
Creation happens to you and through you.
Dreams course endlessly through your veins.
Magic pulses in your heart.
The one I can see now.
The one I offer here to you.
