art heals wounds

On seven-hour flights I get some great ideas. I scramble in the overhead cabin to find a notebook, or laptop to capture these fleeting inspirations.  Perhaps it is the confines of an economy-sized seat – the helplessness that kicks in once you know you are squashed into an airborne tin can which could double as a coffin – that somehow is good irrigation for the mind.  But ideas come unannounced. I can even snatch them out of the recirculated air. I get to thinking of millions of people 35,000 feet below going about their tiny lives, repeating the same habitual behaviours and from that perspective, the whole kaleidoscope of life is suspended and illuminated. My mind wanders to people who have been significant in my life. They were often women who offered practical help,  yet they acted as muses without even knowing. The story goes that the creative muses are the nine daughters  of Zeus and…

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