Average inspiration

I feel like Schmendrick in The Last Unicorn: “I am a dwelling; I am a vessel. The magic moves through me; it does what it will.

“I did it. It came. It’s gone now, but someday, someday… it will come when I call!”

I can write. Sometimes I feel inspired; sometimes the ideas flow and I can write what feels like true insight, a clearer understanding.

Other times it feels like dipping a pen into the ocean; the ink barely stains the page, insipid, pale. It wavers and dips, bare commonplace, a simple tune without accompaniment, no swelling orchestra, no moving spirit to it.

God made us. He knew we would only occasionally rise to the sublime, and yet he encouraged us, supported us, when all we could do was sip a little broth and fall back, spent. He must love us. He must love the pattern of sunlight on hundreds of leaves, the dimming after sunset, the cold gray of frozen winter. The sublime is awesome, but He must really live for the glory of average. His children can do no more than try.