Yesterday morning came the male rain. That’s what our hundreds of Navajo neighbors call it. It’s a hard rain blasted at us by thunder and lightning. It pounds the earth and gouges out gullies. A couple of hours of it can make deep zigzags in the yard. Sometimes hail rat-a-tats on the roof.
Later that day came the female rain, a soft, gentle moisture that strokes the soil and the plants.
As the Navajos see it, we need both forms of rain, one for insemination, one for growing.
I started that day in the doldrums. I’d had some days of frustration with wanting to start writing (this will be the third title in my fantasy Spirit Flight series), and feeling a little off. When the male rains came, I drew the cool, moist air into my lungs and suddenly thought, I can write. NOW, I said to myself. GO!
The afternoon brought me five new-born pages. Are they terrific? Doesn’t matter. They are the first cells of what will one day feel to me like a living being. As I wrote, the female rains drifted down.
I remarked to myself, later, that the writer in me is able somehow to heal the man. He can change woes to joy, frustration to fun.
How odd. Who are these two people who live inside me, and which of them is real? Though the stories sometimes seem to come from some power outside, they probably don’t. They come from the guy who knows how to make contact with creative energy and by doing that, incidentally, saves my life. Wonderfully, the person I need most lives inside me.
He's always there, but sometimes silent. How to get him to come forth? For me one way is a moment of opening to the earth--a short walk, a moment standing in rain, or watching winds whip the clouds. The quickest way, though, is just to begin writing. Before long my partner joins in the fun.
I want to spend all my days with that creator fellow. Bye bye, sad guy.
So I'll write every day. Play music every day. Keep my friend close.
Where do your stories come from?
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