There exists in this created world of mine a phenomenon that brings me endless surprises. And it’s a gift that comes to me, literally, out of the air.

Found objects. Small miracles. In ordinary things.

These are the things that exist in the corporeal world that invite themselves into the imaginary one; things that cleave to the inside of one’s head and bind themselves to the plot as naturally as if they’d been planned.

This past weekend was full of those found little gifts, many of them discovered in the deep, dark hours of night when ideas come to visit. And what a night this was…

A window full of stars. The sound of wind in dry leaves—and in the spaces between them. The single, lingering note of a deep and melodic wind chime that carried itself off  slowly into the darkness. The smell of gathering cold. They all had a place in the story. And they came to me of their own will.

It’s a strange dichotomy. The struggles one goes through to grow the idea; the ease with which the clues can arrive when one is willing to receive them with Open Eyes. Open Ears. And an Open Mind.

Do we receive these clues and reinvent our story around them? Or do we accept them into our thinking, a room already prepared for them? I have no clue. I do know that the story’s substance and direction are changed by their presence; a necklace made of found gems that becomes something to cherish for exactly what it is.

I accept with gratitude those things give themselves to me. And I wonder what others are out there waiting for me to find them, these things that let me create something else.