On the language of creative instinct

A conversation I had recently reminded me of a line I love by the late poet Mary Oliver, from her poem Wild Geese. It begins with the line, “You do not have to be good,” later saying “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

The conversation was with a friend of a friend I met last Friday at the pub. She’s spent the past 8 years working with horses, waking up at 3 am to prepare their saddles for trail rides through the bush onto long stretches of white sand.

It was such a strangely on-point conversation for where I’ve been at lately. After I told her what I do, she shared that she sometimes writes poetry when the inspiration hits. Similarly to how Elizabeth Gilbert described Tom Waits receiving creative downloads, she talked about how her poetry comes from a mysterious place. She motioned her hands to the sky alluding to an unknown source, and brought them down again through the centre of her body, suggesting this was the pathway inspiration travelled.

I told her I’d be keen to read some and she said she’d love to share, but warned me that some of it doesn’t make sense. I told her that coincidentally, this is something I’ve practising, ‘channelling’ creative energy in the way she described. I want my work to make less sense, I said. I explained that a lot of my writing, other than a two-decade journalling practice with some poetry thrown in, has been largely analytical for work purposes. I said I wanted to carve out a more instinctual personal writing practice.

At one point in the conversation, she mentioned her working life has been predominantly about physicality and movement. I thought about how mine’s been the opposite. Although I prioritise regular movement, I spend most of my time curiously gobbling up information at work. It’s an amazing way to avoid feelings hidden away in the body. But, I’ve been actively working on balancing this lately, facilitated by an intention to operate from the neck down more often with whatever works. For me, it’s been through a greater emphasis on meditation, movement and creativity. With practice, I’m learning the unique language of my body, which speaks in feelings and instincts instead of words and ideas.

I mentioned this to her and when, for a second, it might’ve sounded like I was over-emphasising living from the body, she noted, “But it’s important to use the whole body though, including the mind. It’s all been given to us to use. It’s a balance.” I nodded in agreement.

She mentioned she wants to write a book about her experiences working with the horses and what she’s learned from them. Elaborating on this, she said “For example trust their instincts. If they don’t like something,” she said, kicking her back leg, “they don’t hesitate to jolt in the other direction.” She commented how we’re too judgemental of our feelings, particularly anger. “But the horses,” she said, “they feel what they feel and move on without self-judgement.” Remembering the line from Wild Geese, I thought “They love what they love.”

I think creativity operates like this. When we’re judging what’s being channelled, the transmission falters and slows. I’m learning that the conditions required to create from a less cerebral, more instinctual place are self-trust and surrender to what wants to be expressed through the creative impulse, no matter how nonsensical. Creativity can’t be calculated or over-analysed. Editing comes later on. For so long, it felt like anything worthwhile had to be difficult or done under a judgemental gaze. Releasing the judgemental gaze is liberating for creativity and the parts of us that are more spiritual and animal than rational. The parts with the capacity to trust instinct, to allow, receive and to flow.

Above: Cher, from the album Half-Breed