The other day a friend casually mentions that it’s been some time since he’s seen a new blog posting of mine. Hating to be reminded of something I know only too well, I respond quickly, anxious to move on.
“The PECO tower no longer inspires me,” I state, as if my boredom with the nightly cycle of “run-for the-cure” promos and electric safety tips might explain my silence.
Another friend, a writer herself, later reminds me of something I also know. If you want to write, paint, sculpt, compose music, make a mosaic masterpiece etc., you’ve got to sit your “bunda” down and–in my case—place hands on keyboard.
The muse awaits an invitation; at a minimum, a sign. You’ve got to show her you’re open to receive. Even so, sometimes she shows up, sometimes she doesn’t.
Lack of discipline aside, the whole issue got me thinking. What inspires me these days? I’m not talking about the big super-duper, mind-blowing acts. You know, ones in which a radically courageous soul risks it all to speak truth to power. Or some divine human forgives the most heinous act committed against him.
Nor am I referring to those things–big or small– that fire me up. The ones that initiate a flaming rant or two. The ones that can send me right down the rabbit’s hole. (They’re a dime a dozen these days, and where does it get you anyhow?)
No, I’m talking about inspiration from the small, quiet, mundane things. The “you-better-pay-attention-or-you’ll-miss-it” things. The little things that “fill you with breath” as the ancient Romans described it.
So today I am on the lookout for that kind of inspiration as I head east down Pine to yoga or cross Fitler Square with nannies and toddlers playing on the grass. As I pick up some hummus at Trader Joe’s or walk down to the Schuylkill to watch the dogs sniff and fetch.
Turns out, inspiration is all around me, mine for the taking. Here’s what I find:
A blue-suited father and his son are walking home from school. I am a few steps behind them and lucky enough to overhear their conversation. “What’re we gonna make for supper,” the boy asks with excitement. A lively, problem-solving discussion ensues filled with possibilities, followed by pros and cons, yeas and nays. The dad leads gently so that both contribute. Finally, the list narrows, and both are pleased. It’ll be pasta, but there’ll be sauteed veggies too. Dessert’s in the freezer to their mutual delight. What fun they’re having! What fun they’ll have making it! This father inspires me.
I stand at the busy intersection of 19th and Walnut and remind myself to pay attention to the onslaught of cars, buses and bikes before I step off the curb. Next to me is a man. Next to him, a woman with a white cane. I watch as he asks her if he might help her cross the street. I hear him inquire how far she’s going. He’d be happy to accompany her those six blocks, he tells her. She smiles and takes his arm. The sweetness of the scene fills me up. Kindness is contagious. It inspires me.
So does beauty. Like the window boxes, clay pots and iron urns all over 
town, sprouting plants of every luscious hue, every shape, every texture. Each one is unique, each made with the best materials the earth has to offer. I am so grateful for their presence, these little flowering oases, as I walk the blocks of concrete, brick, glass and stone. They nourish me. They uplift me–even in the wilting 90 degree heat.
Unexpected messages also inspire me. The city’s full of them. I find them on brown paper stretched over the window of a store in renovation, on the T-shirt of a well-built guy at 11th and Passyunk, on a freight car with bubble-lettered graffiti sprayed an iridescent pink. Messages meant just for me; messages that appear at just the right moment. Like the one I found across 22nd shortly after the election reminding me to remain, “Relentlessly hopeful.”
Today’s is on the board in front of the Unitarian Church on Chestnut. It reads:
“You are constantly invited to be what you are.” Poet-philosopher, Ralph Waldo Emerson, still inspires.
And then there’s Jerry who stands in front of a CVS for hours each day selling a thin newspaper, entitled One Step Away. According to the masthead, it is produced “by those without homes for those with homes.” Jerry’s profits go for food; there’s never enough to rent a room. I tell him I love the poems in the paper. They are raw, honest. Mainly, though, it is that I am awed by those who manage to put pen to paper while camping out under overpasses.
Jerry says he wants to get back to his writing. “Just haven’t been up to it lately,” he admits. Then, looking straight at me, he adds with a shake of his head, “Problem is, ‘scuses don’t get the job done!”
What’s inspiring you these days?
Sixties Chick 