Some days, some weeks, all my work happens on the inside. I don't use many words, I don't take many photos. My skin rests, my hair stays pulled back. From the outside not much seems to bloom. But inside, the good work is sprouting.
Earlier this weekend I talked with a good friend about the concept of artistic fullness. There is much written about the "well of creativity" and the continual need to fill and fill to brimming. I think about my internal source not so much as a well, with it's straight sides and uniform depth, but as a vernal pool, a natural feature on the undulating landscape of living. When the seasons shift, the waters rise and the whole of the pool teams with life scurrying under the surface. The sun rises, the sun sets, and slowly the waters pull in towards the center, leaving a ring of vibrant flora. This outer ring gives way to the next burst of color, giving way to the next, until a cross section of beauty is radiating out, deep and lush, left behind by the receding water. The rich liquid of life itself is reduced to a small pool, still bountiful, still fertile, still carrying seeds and life and the minutia of creation, yet condensed and calling out for rain.
And so I do a rain dance.