The wonderful Julia Cameron uses this phrase as a prompt and so to great effect have the ‘Creative Writing meets Life Coaching for Mothers’ group. Here is a piece written by Nell Aurelia which we begged her to share.
As an artist I…
I crouch in hedges to capture-snap patterns of ivy and the close up alien populations of water droplets on fronds of moss. I pick up river stones and pebbles to pocket-bring their smooth whispers home, to be held for comfort or inspiration in the palm of my hand, or set sitting in council together on a shelf. I sit with trees until I feel strong, I trust them with every secret.
I move all the furniture into new positions when difficult, seemingly immoveable scenarios enter my life. I use clothes as the bridge between the unconscious and conscious, their combinations, colours, shapes and textures serving as my signs, symbols, messages and beacons, a runway for the cosmos to manifest into the everyday. When finances stall I wear green velvet trousers for prosperity; I am not going to be serious when playing is allowed.
I arrange small objects into particular relations and formations until a pure note sounds and I move on satisfied, returning to pause and gaze and move on, or pause and gaze and move a little more. I see what things could be, I see what they are not yet, nature’s offerings and people’s discards call my name invitingly and shape shift winkingly.
I think expansive spiralling thoughts in square places, I ring my bells in sharp corners and stir clear wishes into round cakes.
I watch the skies and act with the moon. I sing of owls at bedtime and glimpse angels in the kitchen. I see beauty in old faces, and sometimes I know instantly the point fear first touched a stranger’s heart. I wake with words waterfalling through my head, a cascade, of which only a spray ever makes it onto the page. I see humour in the worst of my situations and just lately I see the spaces where tears are allowed.
I feel rhythms showcased up my spine and down, shifting, changing, meeting, clashing, blending, laying, lacing a web of moving touch-taste-colour-sound. I drink joy, and smell hope like a new shoot in a shady glade. I mirror complex weaving melodies, enchantment mellowing resonant dancing vibrant and loud.
I will take up my drum and layer, join, meld dreaming with waking. I hear my own note in the ocean of sound. I make it so.