Inspired By History: A 'Muse' Me Monday

My friend Audra is one of those girls who, when she gets a creative idea, runs with it as far as she can go!  Today she's debuting not one new linky party, but FIVE new linky parties on her website! She's got one for every week day!

Today is her first A ‘Muse’ Me Monday and her assignment for participants is to post about something that inspires us to creativity.

I think that the number one thing that inspires me to creativity in my writing is to be in an old place.  I love to find a coffee shop or bistro that has been established in some old building somewhere, order tea---maybe some soup and bread, and head for the darkest corner of the room to write! 

Great Pacific Wine & Coffee Co., Pendleton Oregon

I've always been able to let my imagination wander when I've sat near Eastern Oregon's John Day River and imagined Indians watering their animals in the very spot I was sitting.  I've come up with so many creative ideas and plans while riding along the winding roads through old mining towns full of Gold Rush history.  When I spend time visiting Eastern Oregon's cemeteries, museums, and libraries---places that are full of the stories of others---it's almost like I can feel the memories all around me.

Morrow County Museum, Heppner Oregon

The people that actually make it into the history books are but a minute representation of the people, thoughts and experiences of whatever time period they represent.  Each person who spends time on this Earth for any length of time leaves a legacy.  It's fun to think about what kind of legacy I'm leaving.  I enjoy challenging myself to leave the most honorable legacy possible.

What kinds of things inspire your creative musings?  Let me know in the comments below...or, better yet, link up with Audra's A 'Muse' Me Monday and share it with everyone!  

Did you know my March Giveaway Jubilee is going on RIGHT NOW?  Did you know I'm giving away 4 great prizes (one of them being a Etsy-wide gift certificate)!!  There are others who are offering giveaways too and more will join up throughout the month. Click the button below to check it out and YOU could be a winner! :) 

Hope

Hope sits still and serene at the edge of a melodious river, dangling one bare foot into the warm, blue water. Her lovely blonde ringlets reflect the light of the afternoon sun and form a shimmering halo around her young head. Though she can’t help but raise her eyes every so often to the far-off hills, He has told her to wait patiently and so she will. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” He’d promised. If she has learned anything from past experience, she’s learned that time is relative no matter where one is. Even in this youthful body, she knows that the time it takes to endure is well worth the rewards that fortitude brings.

Since patience seems to be coming much more easily than normal this day, she begins to take inventory of her new appearance. Strangely, she can not see her reflection in the water in front of her. From the moment she arrived here in this glorious place, she’s wondered about herself. There isn’t much she can learn about what’s inside; about her dreams, wishes and longings. She’s treasured all of these, along with many thoughts and questions, since the day she was conceived. It’s her outside that is so new and clean and unfamiliar.

With a little shake of her head, she can see that her hair is golden and beautiful. She reaches for a curl and lets the silky strand slide around her fingers and over the back of her hand. As she moves to examine the hand more closely, she spies a simple white butterfly hovering near her knee. She watches with innocent interest for just a moment before it flutters over to a nearby snapdragon and gracefully lands beside it in the grass.

Lifting the small, delicate hand up to eye-level seems so simple now and she marvels at the lightness of it; both in skin tone and in weight. Turning this hand right-side up, she examines the lines upon her tiny palm. Amazing, she thinks, and so real.

Her eyes follow the motion as she slowly places the hand back in her lap. Fixing her gaze on the arm for just a moment, she changes her mind about resting it and, using her newly-nimbled fingers, explores the length of the opposite arm. Leisurely, she runs her fingers up and back down. Tickles, she says to herself, as even now the new word tickles her tongue.

A slippery smoothness is caressing the bottom of her one wet foot. Her brown eyes settle on a long and shiny creature gliding through the water. Father loves fish, she thinks to herself. But just as quick as it caught her attention, the creature is gone and her mind becomes occupied elsewhere.

“She’s here,” the butterfly whispers up to the snapdragon. The flower shivers with a sudden air of excitement and replies, “So soon? I didn’t realize we’d get to see her so perfectly formed so early!” The butterfly sighs. “Yes, she’s a beauty, isn’t she? She’s just the image of perfection!” She flurries up to give the snapdragon a butterfly kiss and then takes off back into the sky in search of a honeysuckle treat.

The snapdragon proudly pulls herself up to her full height--six inches at last measurement. As she stretches her lush leaves against the warm sun’s rays, a tiny yawn escapes from her delicate, pink lips. Lifting her head to peer over the sleeping marigolds, she stands upon the tips of her toes (which are firmly rooted in the ground, of course) and sees, just over the nearest hillside, exactly what she is looking for.

“Come children, come quickly”, the Man says as he ascends the last mound of lush, emerald hilltop. He takes care not to hurry the young family, most of them less than five years old. The Man turns to face this great group of children, His very presence commanding their complete attention. He smiles warmly and lovingly, sits down on a nearby rock and takes a young Asian boy on his lap. “Children”, he says, “I want you to remember back to the first time you realized you were in Hope’s place. Be patient, be kind. Be gentle and show her love. Come. Let’s go down to the river.”

The friendly party makes their way across the honey-scented meadow. “Look”, cries the Man, “there by the water!” He stops the children and they all stand still, amazed at the way the sunlight bounces off her flaxen hair. “She looks like my Angel”, says a little Irish red-headed girl, “only my Angel is a lot bigger than that!”

“Come”, says the Man, “Let’s take some time to offer our welcome wishes to this newest reflection of me. There’s a new child in Heaven today.”

Dreaming in Color

There’s a creative soul that’s been locked up inside of me. Today I intend to free her. I don’t know how long the emancipation process will last, but I have a feeling that she will emerge in the same manner that she was suppressed---slowly.

What is it that makes me feel like I can’t really write unless I’m in just the right atmosphere, wearing just the right clothes and using just the right instruments? Does this mean I’m not a “real writer”? Shouldn’t a “real writer” be able to pour out her heart through her pen at any given moment under any circumstances?

Why is it that I’m so excited to pick up my glasses this afternoon? It’s because I think they’ll make me look smarter---like I have something to contribute to this big world so full of knowledge already.

“There’s nothing new under the sun,” the good king once said. “There is no remembrance of earlier things; and also of the later things which will occur.” (Ecc. 1:9, 11) This verse reminds me of the comic strip my mom cut out for me recently. In it, a young mom calls her mother to tell her how she read online that if one were to take all the leftovers from one’s fridge, put them in a pot with water, and let it cook over the stove for a few hours, one could feed a family for several days. The mother responds, “Congratulations! You’ve discovered soup!”

I am not so foolish as to believe that everything that comes around has not already been around; however, I want to be one who discovers something new for my generation. I’m convinced that inside every wall, there’s a note left by it’s builder. Underneath every modern lawn, hides an old metal key or an etched glass button, or the other half of a long-since broken locket. I want to offer ideas that are fresh for my time. I want to be considered brilliant. I want to be taken seriously.

The other day, I refreshed my Facebook page to see the intelligent grin of my friend Amelia and her most recent wall post: “Just sitting here drinking tea and working on my novel.” I wanted to cry. (Later that morning, I did cry). Amelia is all I could be if I’d take opportunities instead of make excuses.

I whined to my mom about this a little later on that morning. She responded by listing all the people she could think of who’d recently come in to her store and told her what an awesome mom I am and how much they admire me.

So why can’t I be content and let these selfish passions be laid to rest? Why do I struggle between thinking they’re selfish passions on one hand and on the other hand, feeling like I’m allowing fear to hold me back from a calling?

In my heart, I believe it’s because God has made me in His image: the image of a creator. He has designed me to create---it’s in my soul.