About a decade ago I participated in a facilitated Artist’s Way group. (This is not it, but it gives you an idea.) We met at the home of the group facilitator and worked our way, one chapter a week, through the book. And it did get all of us feeling quite creative.
I’d been to Ireland about a year before, and this poem just popped out one day. (Disclaimer: I’m not a real, practiced poet. I just play with words and feelings.)
High on a windy cliff in the northwest,
peering into the afternoon sun lying on the sea below
like golden rose petals
floating on the perfect azure-blue.
And I am moved, without a word,
to tears. Sun and salt and spray and sea
call to ancient blood
that stirs in me. Older than me.
Older than time.
I am standing on the edge of the world,
the very edge of the world.
Ahead, the road curves away from the cliffs,
heading inland, and I turn to go,
leaving behind my heart’s cry
and the wild, wild western sea.
It amuses me now that the Irish tourism industry has developed a route they call the Wild Atlantic Way. And guess what? I’m planning to drive it when I return to western Ireland in a couple weeks.