Muddlement

A morning devoid of inspiration, which leads me to wonder what might in fact inspire me.

I think of a cabin I once visited on weekends at the Russian River, on Cazadero Creek, with sunlight coming dappled through the redwoods and the water slow, purling (or even pearling), green as I remember it, offering quiet advice.  One particular morning I could hear Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto coming from the cabin across the creek through an open window or door; I absorbed it utterly, like an eager sponge, and was quite prefectly happy—until I was interrupted, disturbed.  

I think that’s what I need now, more than anything:  clarity of mind, which is only going to come from quiet, solitary actions.  Avoiding the disturbances.  Walking in the woods (such as they are here); finding a little chuckling stream or maybe fountain; letting the confusion of work and obligations and unwanted distractions settle, the muddy thoughts clear.  A week at Tassajara would be perfect, or a week on the long-lost Mallorcan hilltop swathed in olives and aleppo pine.  

But if retreat isn’t possible, I guess the only answer is a strategic advance.  Walking this muddled mood out; leaving this troubled inner place behind, to arrive at another.  Music too might help. Something as lucid as the Emperor Concerto or sunny as Mozart.  The water-glimmer of a piano.

image:  Gustav Klimt, The Park of Schloss Kammer