Tell me what The Wonderbook is about…
…was the request. How to be naming it… describing it?
An off the cuff response is that The Wonderbook is to be a library of stories telling the tales of awe and inspiration that is set upon us when we come in to contact with that which is without ourselves.
In more detail I can only offer the chance to be more precise in acknowledging the mystery of creativity and the indebtedness to life with which we perform our role. Whether we are a poet, a painter, a chef or an architect, the things that inspire us ignite sparks of energy within that are fuelled by something greater than anything we see.
The Wonderbook is a place to share the stories of such events, the telling of their unravelling, their tumbling into being. When we submit to the vitality of our purpose, what we create has note.
It is worthy of note.
And the retelling of it is a story in itself.
So… for instance
At the moment, I am living here
It is a place of immersive wonder. I can not begin to explain the humility I feel when this beauty is all around me.
Yet this is my response
How can it be that when the grandeur of the river; the colour, the smell, the heart wrenching call of belonging, the circling eagles and the splash of the flicking salmon brings me to this?
These few blackberries,
Plump with their own treasure
Hanging like stars.
They rise and fall,
Beckoning with sweet tease
Out of reach.
The pure hooded bells
Open in clamour
Smiling at the sky
And the separate yellow stranger
Apart but not alone
I don’t know… words come and go. And it is important that they do.
Not the weight or gravity of them, not the splendour or correctness. But the acknowledgement… to me, the story of where I am. I have chosen not to say river, turquoise, tree or flow … naming it as such might have excluded my response. There are other words, images, stories to tell, other ways of saying so.
The naming of it … it mocks what it is … the mystery of it
I am still unsure, of how to explain the purpose of The Wonderbook, only that I know it will grow. A place to file those glints of magic, the stories of the passing of wonder. How it came, went and was enjoyed.
At once we may behold a vision of magic and it thrills us; whether it be a beautiful morning, the shrill call of a crow or the gentle fall of snow. And how capable we are of expressing it in indeterminable ways… the story of that passage of creativity as absorbing as the inspiration itself.
We mark that priceless moment in any way we can; word, image, film, song or dance. Using this mark of memory to relive that experience, to embrace that soul fulfilling yearn.
I tend to look down (a city dwelling habit), I see marvels at my feet.
I share these experiences, as brief and inconsequential as they may be. But I know I am talking now … and I am not alone. What I see, what I feel, taste, touch, smell, hear they are all vital and riddled with wonder. My response must be a respect to that, however I choose to express it.
And in response or a consequence, I wrote the following. I had no idea from where it came, but I knew it meant something ‘other’ … it is the listening to your faith that allows your expression to be genuine, the willingness to let it talk through you, changing and rolling with the day … not the naming of it.
In this space where stillness calls
Like whispered hush from unvisited corners
And the dark of the stage heralds
Anticipation of the stumble and fall
I, bodily, frown and wonder at my core
My capability, my conquering of it all.
And in that sliced moment, dissected
And held. Right there, hanging with
The inexorable beat of my own timid
Heart, I behold a speck of life;
Dust, hung, glinting and glorious
Resplendently allowing me to wonder.
If, in its own insignificant pose
My eyes could be diverted and my gaze
Fixed upon its insignificant glory
Then the dark corners might be banished.
And I, I can spring and leap, rising
With the fabulous birth of it all.
So with leading elbow and flicking hand
Jutting hips made for teetering reach
And turning out I called for You
Your name raising a thousand more flecks
And from dust I make you, my figurine
For we dance in cajolement of life
And blinds are furled, tall curtains drawn
And life has returned with the enquiring sun
In this cloud of dancing life; lovers
Giggling with the order of things, heading for the coast