“Inspiration. Is this what you’re looking for?” My muse inquires. High above an aqua ocean, three white birds coast south through curling clouds, wispy like smoke. The moon a day from being full, floats above palms and sea grapes in an ageless sky. The setting sun carves dusky cradles in the sand. A sense of peace prevails in the breeze. A peace tinged with yearning.

What birds are these?

Reckon I’ll never be able to tell you the source of inspiration, when it will come, or why it even comes at all. Is it stored somewhere in the universe, like lightning in a bottle? Maybe it prowls the shadowy corners of dreams, or lurks beneath our bed of memories. I can only imagine. Exhilarating like love, the energizing feeling is unmistakable when it strikes.

If you search for inspiration, it will elude you like the origin of wind. You can not command nor coax or whistle for her like a dog. She won’t come. It’s like trying to talk birds out of the trees.

Where are they from? Where are they going, those large white birds?

“If you could be in a cloud, which one would you choose?” Within the lilac mist of time, I recall a summer voice. Silently, I answer. I’m already there.

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you must leave a back channel to inspiration open in your mind—a vigil candle burning for the muse. Embrace the Divine, receptive and poised for work. Dismiss the noise in your head, and inspiration will come unbidden like a blow from Thor’s hammer, or the soft cooing of a dove.

A whisper of a breeze kisses my cheek. I roll on my side and study faraway things then reach for my sketchbook to transcribe the sweet murmurings of my muse.

The mystifying birds ghost into the blue.