All day, for days now, ideas are constantly flitting around my head. I notice one, a white butterfly contrasting the lush green grass. I watch her for a while, appreciating her beauty, the way she moves with a random grace. I wonder where she’ll go next. And then I’m distracted by something, a child usually, needing a part of me I don’t want to give. When I’m done pouring myself into the crevices that need filling, I look back. But she’s gone. While I was busy emptying myself into squabbles over toys and unmet expectations, the idea left, just like that.
Is that what the collective conscious is like? Ideas flit about this large field of conscious thought looking for a place to land, but if you look away, if you turn your attention to the physical, to a place where you’re already empty, that idea moves on to find another field, another flower to drink from, another leaf to lay her eggs under where the chance of those eggs hatching and growing and flying on their own is really possible.
Lately I’ve been dragging words through thick mud trying to get them on the page. Tonight, I sat down to pour out something, anything, to help me get unstuck. I caught the faintest breeze off that butterfly’s wings, enough for me to remember she was there earlier, but not enough for me to get a true sense of her beauty. Perhaps the idea will come back, the thing I felt moved about in that moment, but just as likely not.
It’s been this way lately. The thoughts, feelings, and ideas are but transient settlers in my brain. I’m distracted by too many things – wobbly emotions, mountains of anxiety and children who need me to be their mother. Never enough time or quiet for me to allow something to fully unfold. Everything about who I am and what I want feels wispy and fragmented.
I need to be able to stop long enough to let her thin black legs land on my heart, her powdery wings flicking silently apart then together, waiting for me to open to her. I need to let her speak to me until the idea has enough of it’s own weight that it won’t fly away with her when she takes off again, finding her way on a current of thought to another woman in need of her inspiration.
I need more dirt under my feet, more salt air in my lungs. I need more stillness, more peace. I know these things like I know my bones, but I just don’t quite know how to get them.