Creativity is a delicate matter.  Love and adventure transpiring in and through the self must be respected and cultivated in the act.  A creative product which doesn’t reflect back to its creator the fires of creation within his or her belly will only dim those flames, whereas one that does will grow them.  This produces a delightful intoxication, not that of the arrogant ego that quashes creativity in its mad rush for glory or its sad slouch towards acceptance, but one that instills an ever deepening humility and wonder.  A vicious cycle of self-renewing creativity and satisfaction ensues.  It is never enough.  But it is always there.

Creativity that has an end outside the deepening self with all its unfolding mystery and marvel is a stranger from a strange land.  It carries coins that buy only illusions.  The currency the heart wants is deeper, more fundamental.  It smiles back from within a shadow and a candle, from the curve of a lover’s shoulder turning in low light like the lion before the dawn.  It sings to the soul from within the music that rises from where one is now.  And it can purchase that foundry where words are the sparks lifting from the iron as it’s crafted into a sword that cuts truth from lies and melds contradictions.