We are Foster Parents of the Creative Impulse

It was July 3, 2024, and I sat in meditation. As I sat, this occurred to me, and I wrote down what I could shortly afterward:

I ask for the creative impulse to surge through me, yet I do not assure it that I’ll be kind to it. It knows me well enough, and at any and perhaps underneath all moments, I am criticizing it—assuredly when it comes through me, and much less so when it comes through other people. And so, I say to the impulse, in remorse:

Dear One,

I am truly sorry for frightening you. How could I ask you to come out and play when you know well that I will criticize you when you do. I cannot hurt you anymore, because this new understanding pains me too much. You are beautiful and wiser than I am, and to tell you you’re wrong makes me undeserving of you.

I want to learn to love you unconditionally with all of my heart, because you are of a Divine making. Because you are love, and to hate you when you show up for me is cruel, cruelty born of my ignorance. I understand why you hide from me —I would do the same and, indeed, I do. It pierces my hope and curiosity, my hands and feet, my eager playfulness, when I come out excitedly to show someone what I’ve done, only to be poked, only to elicit a grimace and to receive what is wrong with me. Then I, myself, hide my playfulness from others.

And how could I do this to you, when you peek out from my son, my partner, my friend, a stranger, me? How could I be so violent?

Forgive me.

I love you unconditionally. And if something in me sees where I can improve what gifts you give me, I will see your gifts and I will add to them, not strip them. I will contribute more, not negotiate for less.

You are wisdom, love, creativity, bound together like the strings of rainbow yarn; an innocent child and a wise sage.

I am your student.

Wrap me in your creation. I will love you. I do love you. As you love me.

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Today I say, almost nine months of gestation later:

I don’t own the creative impulse that flows through me. I share it, with all of life. The creative energy flowing through me is the same as that which flows through all others—the amateurs and the greats. I am its foster mother, its godmother, its cousin, its aunt. I am its faithful student. I am its friend. And together, we play and play and play. There is absolutely nothing to criticize in play. There is only joy. And laughter.