fear no art

Serenading Words: Ode to Reconnecting with Creativity.

Expression is vital for me, it keeps my insides plump and moist. Most recently, my infatuation with words is smoldering.

A white pasture to release the unruly, to hear essence spoken in silence, to magnify the minutiae of Being, a cauldron to cast spells. The process is a maturation that requires a regression. A willingness to get on my knees and crawl into the primal sense of all things. To spew words that resonate with Truth and give my voice legs so it can walk off the page, into my life formed.

The process is titillating and titanic. For all the times I’ve danced in devotion to Creation, I’ve also pointed sharp fingers of ridicule when it hasn’t performed how I wanted, forgetting that I’m communing with chaos. I yearn to let go, to lose control so magic can slip into my Being like an octopus headed home, back to sea.

Yet I can fall into the trap of demanding, forgetting I’m the one in the service position. I ignore invitations, and put a lid on it when the pressure builds. It’s a recipe for an explosive power struggle that Creation has no interest in playing. It has all the resources in the world to wait for my tantrum to end, so we can begin. It’s a wonder it lingers, that I return and bow.

Sometimes Creation seems like the safest option. It takes me away from the noise, so I can hear the luminous whisper of God within myself. It grants me the space to capture the words that had eluded me at the time they were dying to creep out from hiding.

Sometimes, it feels like the riskiest option. An unzipping of the skin, a self-exposure. All that’s incubating or festering in the dark suddenly squinting at the light as it adjusts to beams of attention. Sometimes I loath it, believing it isolates me from the embodied connection I desire. That I’m spending more time illustrating life and living my present in memories versus creating new ones.

Sometimes, writing is my best friend that I can’t wait to show and tell about my day. Surprise endings taking the cake, exceeding expectations and reminding me of the miraculous.

Painting was once how I brushed up against divine madness. Molding mud pies into pottery my way of pinching something to know it was all real. Shredding paper to collage them all back together again, differently, a spectacular display of chaos organized.

Now, writing beats upon my ribs and plucks my veins, serenading words as they’re laid to rest, harmonizing with the emotions stirred. My heart touched, yet again.

When challenges ripen into conscious fruits flung in vertical lines and loops across a blank page. When nothing seems to make any sense and joy emanates between the lines. The only known — a facet of beauty will go extinct before it can catch a breath unless I show up empty and open to allow it to crown, and flood into being.

There is no choice but to be a creating creature. Powers greater than any one flesh needs the buried secrets to be drawn to the skin so they have more breathing room to saturate our souls.

I have squandered my riches, bound my body around my treasures, which makes my butt prey for the green-eyed monster of competition and jealousy. I’ve wished people would slow down so I can keep up, instead of asking for courage to unwind so I can move into the space that has been reserved for me to dine.

It requires devotion. To fortify my backbone with an innate knowing to assuage the flustered anxiousness, doubt, and insecurity, and allow ancient brilliance to take the lead. To show up, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, through all the deaths, destruction and rebirths.

To establish trust that I’m willing, no matter the density of inspiration, because mystery is the most exquisite company — it only requests presence. To talk less and create more. To demand less and listen more. To be in joy and hold lightly the gravity of this living experiment of life as an animal capable of birthing beauty.

When all is said and done, because there is nowhere else to go, I pray that whatever flows forth puts my heart in my hands, unfurling all of my gross and succulent insides into the open air. For whatever is new in the world to be alive, kicking, and crying a tone that evokes the God within all creatures to join in — a choir praising creation.

To give thanks every day that I was chosen to do the filthy gorgeous work of birthing what matters… to me

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Erica Gibbert is an earth-shaker with a shy, tender heart who also tosses frisky winks into the world through her art and laughter. Her longing for rescue has dragged her into adventures and dead ends. The Muse offered a spanking, and handed her the reins. She’s worn many hats as a biology and yoga teacher, social worker, bodywork therapist, and sensual educator. She feels most whole when she strips away the layers to smear her body with mud and allow her rump to be sun-kissed. Erica is devoted to resurrecting the body as a work of art and plunging into the holy waters of sensuality to slow down and savor the subtle beauty and simple pleasures of life. You can find her art and offerings at Primal Muze, a breeding ground for Creation to quench your thirst and evoke your passion.

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Rebelle Society
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