Fall From Grace

The creative process is, at first, a fall from grace.

It begins with you on a mountaintop, somewhere in the wide world, standing firm, basking in the glory of your own assumptions, and the perception that has molded you since birth.

Then, from the corner of your eye you spot a butterfly—such as none you’ve ever seen before—flitting, playfully, over your shoulder and breaking for the valley below.

The winged creature’s beauty—and unpredictable flight of fancy—sets inestimable fires of thought ablaze within your stagnant mind.  The fires spread like the winds of a storm and, soon, your entire body is ablaze.  Your pulse quickens, and sweat runs like rivers of intent from every pore in your body.

The process has begun—the fall is imminent.

The fires blazing within you compel you to run.  You must catch the spark—if only for a fleeting moment—and determine the source of its beauty.  But it is flown away now, and barely visible as it falls wistfully into the abyss below.

Running is the only option.  There is no time for the subtleties of a casual stroll down the hill.  The impetus for this wild heat within is drawing a curtain of time and space in its wake and—even now—its vision begins to elude you.

Your legs are as pistons obeying the ceaseless desire of the engine up above.  They could not fulfill the speed requirements if they wanted to.  The terrain is uneven, rocky, and unexplored.  Your foot hits a dip and your entire mechanism is thrown off kilter.

You are flailing now—arms and legs akimbo— and the only control you possess is the will to follow that creature of idea.  The rest is all nonsense—grace, and control, and the like—for they would all compose the parameters that would allow this beauty to escape.

And so you let the momentum take you—come hell or high water—and leave your feet behind.

Not surprisingly, the body decides to stay with its friends, and you are now but a lost soul tumbling into eternity.

The motion is hapless—at first.  Head over heels you roll—losing all sense of self and situation to the sheer force of momentum.  Nothing makes sense because all things are possible, and probable.  It is exhilarating, and motivating, and terrifying, all at once.  You are eternity in motion and nothing—not even your over inflated ego—can stop it from moving forward.

You fall through the maelstrom of unlimited ideas and then—without warning—you catch a glimpse of the original thought—the butterfly—that has tempted you into chaos.  It is gone again—in a heartbeat—from your view askew, and yet purpose has returned to your vision for good.  Now—with every turn and twist of your soul—you try to see all other things as they relate to that one of which you are most intent.  Grass, and moss, and rocks cling to the sweating mass of your psyche as you fall; but only long enough for you to decide whether or not they belong within this story.

The tumble resolves itself into a roll as the pieces of the picture coagulate into something that loosely resembles confidence.  Every new fragment that sticks lends credence to the tale that must be told.

And determination wells up inside of you like the first breath of |God…