Finisterre (into the life of creative imagination)

I had an idea how this weekend would go.  I would work heavily at least one day on school stuff, as I was in desperate need of think time for my lesson planning. I would get back to my book, working diligently on word count.  I would relax, too, with family and friends.

It began with the inability to not think about school, so I got think time out of the way. I then opened up to my writing, but not necessarily my book. Well, maybe.  Since my book is a present moment memoir, I suppose it is all possible book material. I cranked out three pieces of writing Friday.  I felt invincible and creative and fulfilled.

It was amazing.

There was a conversation, though, about how hard hit we've been lately with financial demands. And other things have been poking at me, a feeling that changes are coming, good changes. And somehow Saturday morning I realized it was time to suspend taking mandolin lessons for a while.  I have no idea how long a while.  I just knew that the time had come, both financially and for my own creative life, that I leave the weekly commitment behind. It was an obvious decision. But not easy.

I've had these moments before -- a time when I knew I had to release something, even though it had seemed like a very important part of my life. It was never without good results.  I'm trusting that.

I had my last lesson, learning a boogie line for a Christmas song. I gave my teacher Tom some Grateful Dead backstage passes from various years that my husband had collected. He was deeply moved, being the massive Deadhead he is. I told him I hoped to keep up with some goals for my mandolin. He listened patiently to my rambling, and then responded: Just play.

So here it is...my new mantra.

I drove away from the lesson with tears in my eyes.  Something is happening.  I can't control it.  I can't stop.  I have to let it.

I console myself by saying, hey, you can go back any time.  I console myself by picking up my instrument and practicing. I console myself by remembering his words: Just play.

As I wrote in my morning pages today, I knew once again I stand at the edge of something.  I knew it was time for another "Finisterre"poem, ala David Whyte.  I'm coming to the end of something, but a beginning, too.  I'm excited and nervous.

Here is what arose:

Finisterre (into the life of creative imagination)

The road in the end taking the path these past months took you

into a time of unsettled weather and health, a shutting down, an

opening up. You made a commitment to remember the sky and

the message, “All will be well.”  To keep a light heart and to hold

to the roots of that which brings you strength. No way to the

future now except through the release of the limited dream.

You may want to make sense of it, but the tapestry has been woven,

your determination is to witness it from above, see the patterns

forming. Eagle has been your companion, your medicine, your

spirit guide. You have had to prove yourself again and again, step back,

charge forward, festina lente.  The underlying myth of creation guides

you now, you know there is a need for creative imagination in thoughts,

and actions, word play and everyday music. You have unloaded the

baggage thrust upon you, now able to look beyond. At the edge you

stand, ready for the transition, poised for the beginning once again.

These shoes you put on willingly years ago -- time to acknowledge

they no longer fit, as you take your courage and allow what is to be,

to be. There is one thing to remember, one vital thing, one truth that

will bring creative imagination alive, two words spoken by a wise one,

your guide in the ways of everyday music who has sent you on your

way with this simple directive:  Just play.

11/26/17