First, from Elizabeth Barrett Browning; buzzing with inspiration:
And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing’s small!
No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee,
But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim:
And, — glancing on my own thin, veined wrist, —
In such a little tremour of the blood
The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul
Doth utter itself distinct. Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.
And then, from a wilting H. G. Wells:
There was a time when my little soul shone and was uplifted by the starry enigma of the sky. That has now disappeared. I go out and look at the stars the same way I look at wallpaper.
Between these two horizons of imagination and exhaustion lies the awareness of single person.
Where do you find yourself?
Every common bush afire with transcendence, beauty, divinity, wonder, possibilities … or wallpaper?