In Which Creativity is Willed

It's late (or rather, early) and I'm still up.
I'm so tired.
But I want.
I want for more.
I sometimes think "oh, I'll write...what grace and untangling power seems to flow when I just write."
But then I think, "...what will I write?"
And I recall nights of prayer and seeking, the phone flashlight turned on, the ipod playing poetic songs through my worried mind, and the pen flying and gliding, resting and refreshing to my emotions as it swirled across the lined pages. Here, a lyric. There, a simple doodle. There, my own thought. Here, a more-attempted drawing or an idea of a sketch.
What beautiful times those were. Personal and lovely.

My mind returns to Phoenix on the wings of the melody that will not go away, no matter if I can't figure it out. Dreams that I still remember and grudges I'm not sure I've let go of but I'm certain were never called for. Hallelujah....hallelujah. They all ran to the front, the sea of potential rose and crested, flowing to the stage to proclaim, to set forth, to declare that they were their Lord's, and they would gladly go.
I stood back and let the grateful tears begin to fall. I was disappointed, but I was grateful. I began to understand and yet I didn't. I couldn't go, and I wasn't meant to yet. Was I ever?
I don't know.
But still, it rises up as hallelujah.
And still, Phoenix is one of my most cherished memories.
And still, it is beautiful.

A belated Thanksgiving day post? I am thankful for no.