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  • Writer's pictureA.N. Tipton

Is This the Power of Our Words?

the wave of creation comes as inspiration

The inspiration hits, out of the blue. Words invade my head, like an insistent toddler. Do I stop what I’m doing to write it down? Yes. Yes, I do. I whip out my phone and open my notes app, just to get the words down.

Choosing to listen to this invitation of inspiration, I open myself up, calm my mind and surrender. The wave of creation flows in and through my crown, collecting all the pieces inside me that need to be expressed and released.

The first words come, and then they inspire the next, and the next, until I fall into the cadence, into the sensual fluidity of textures and slopes. Until I can taste the sorrow, and smell the elation, and hear the octaves in form of density and light.

Can one really describe with words, the feeling of creation?

We writers try.

All the time.

My Muse is doing pirouettes on my shoulder, while my Inner Critic pouts, her arms and legs crossed. I turn away and feel for that thread, the one that was leading me towards somewhere magical. This time I’m surprised by the words spilling out. They are dark and angst. They shiver like fear and twist into the week’s worth of unsettled feelings.

And yet, I surrender.

I open up, soften, like a mother comforting her newborn.

I give those parts of myself a voice, the ones trapped in survival, flight or fight, uncertainty and sorrow. They unravel, like a spool, once tightly wound but now loose and languid.

And I’m grateful, because the words inform me of what was festering, like a cancer, crouched in the dark, hidden corners. They merge into a sacred offering, one of pain, transmuted and reimagined into form.

The wave of creation slows down to a trickle and then stills all together. I sit back and acknowledge what the words want me to know. The truth of me at that moment. Maybe the truth of me will be different the next moment, and the moment after that.

Like a vine, reaching for the light, crawling up the cracked mortars of my mind. Or perhaps of my heart. Until warm honey settles deep into my bones like liquid gold, illuminating all the cells in my body(s). My mind feels cleansed, my body relaxed and my spirit elevated.

I feel lighter, expelling that which holds me back, in the form of words.

A small smile graces my face, for my Muse is kneeling next to my Inner Critic, enveloping her in a warm hug. And the three of us settle into this new truth of me.

And I wonder…

Is this the power of our words?

Are we little messengers, scribing realities into being, spreading the results of flowing creation unto the pages?

Can our words heal us, soothe us, incite us?

Do we choose the words, or do the words choose us?

What secrets does our words hold, even from ourselves?

What do they have to tell us?

And I realize, I am here to listen.

Previously published on August 2021 on

© 2021 A.N. Tipton

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