A Poem

Secrets are the silent cells that weep wetter than eyes

He imagines he sees a woman walking away from him. Her bare white feet leaving frosty prints in her wake. Long tendrils of white iridescent hair escape from under her hooded cloak and fly untamed behind her.

How do you tap into your creativity? Whether we are embarking on a new project, or we are seasoned in our craft, we can often get into a pit of ‘stuckness’.

What should I write about? (or paint? Or sew? Or compose)? I feel like I have exhausted my well of interesting ideas and there’s nothing left to lift my soul, nor that of others.

I have strategies that might help, one of which I would like to share in this post: the focus on senses. This is a deep dive into the juicy pool of sensory pleasure and exploration, focussing on smell as an example.

It was time to bid her ‘farewell’. She walked away until only their fingertips touched, the image of her sister slowly fading, until the mists that separate them grow too thick and heavy with opacity to see.

‘I cannot give you that information, I’m sorry’ the receptionist’s perfect English was soft, polite, and non-negotiable.

‘We cannot divulge details of our guests.’

The excitement that had rippled through her earlier, the energising sunbeams filling her with optimism, and the belief that today she was Midas, hovered overhead like exposed fraudsters. The treasure map lay in tatters, before she had even found the first clue. Voices around her taunted her ears, determined to interfere with any attempt at rational problem solving. The corners of her mouth submitted to gravity, for a moment…

She opened the heavy mahogany doors to her room and was greeted by beams of sunlight cascading through large windows, sprinkling highlights onto a polished parquet floor. Rushing towards the balcony, she turned the black iron key to release the doors, letting the sun unleash its full joy onto her uplifted waiting face. Eyes closed, for a second, she reflected, ‘I love my work, I love this place’. This place was to be her home for the next seven days.

The coffee shop was hot, steamy and filled with the familiar barista symphony of buzzing, frothing and chatting. The audience dance, whirl, and twirl to the orchestra with practised ease as lattes are scooped with long spoons and espressos downed-in-one by the hard-core. The regulars, the rushing, and the late, all pass through this daily concert … all participating in the communal orchestral salutation to the morning. All … but one.