Phil Cousineau is a bestselling author, editor, photographer, award-winning documentary filmmaker, adventure travel leader, and independant scholar who lectures around the world on a wide range of topics from mythology, mentorship, and soul. His books include The Art of Pilgrimage, Soul Moments, Riddle Me This, and The Soul Aflame. A protege of the late Joseph Campbell, Cousineau is also the author of The Hero's Journey: Joseph Campbell on His Life and Work. He lives in San Francisco, California.

CHAPTER 1

Fires of the Imagination

The artist must create a spark before he can make a fire and before art is bornthe artist must be ready to be consumed by the fire of his own creation.

—Auguste Rodin

Inspiration is a flash of fire in the human soul. Consider the marvel: theinrush of spirit, the flash of an idea, the flame of insight, the spark ofimagination. It's the Aha, Eureka, and Hallelujah moment all rolled into one.Inspiration is a message-in-a-bottle from the distant shore, a window into theother world, a tap of the muse's finger, the grace of the gods. It comes whenyou least expect it, when your defenses are down and your vulnerability up. Itarrives in a dream, a conversation, a brainstorm—and leaves without warning.

Inspiration is John Coltrane emerging out of a fourday silence with Love Supremestreaming through his soul. It's Pierre Bonnard running to the easel afterseeing his wife bathed in golden light in their bathtub. It's Paul McCartneydrifting off to sleep one night with the words "everyone lives in a yellowsubmarine" floating through his head. It's the New Yorker cartoon with the lightbulb flashing over the head of the starry-eyed inventor.

Inspiration can also feel like a sudden possession. The mass hypnosis that cameover Michelangelo and a group of fellow sculptors in Rome the day the Greeksculpture Laocoon was lifted out of the ground is illustrative of this fantasticaspect of inspiration, because it immediately compelled the entire group to drawit.

Sometimes softly, sometimes violently, sometimes sweetly, inspiration swoopsdown and compels us to express ourselves, the devil be damned. Suddenly, we'removed to speak our minds, like the ecstatic Chinese poet Li Po, who believed hewas divinely inspired to write his travel poems and drinking songs; or JaneAusten, who was determined to write even after being banished to a tiny desk inthe cramped hallways of the family home; or Rembrandt, who resorted to paintingdozens of self-portraits when he ran out of money for models.

If inspired, the creative spirit takes wing, soars, surprises, blazes withradiance. "The glow of inspiration warms us," Ovid wrote 2000 years ago, "and itis a holy rapture." Allen Ginsberg said, "I write poetry because the Englishword inspiration comes from Latin, spiritus, breath, and I want to breathefreely." "Who knows where it came from?" French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Pontyadmits, "My own words take me by surprise and teach me what to think."Singer Ani DiFranco sighs, "I have no idea where it comes from. It isn't fair."

Inspiration: it's fascinating, enchanting, angrifying, exasperating, andelusive. If you try to pin it down, it squirms like Proteus, the Greek god ofshapeshifting. It mocks your attempts to capture it with ropes of theory,keeping its secrets by slip-sliding away from you. If you deny it altogether andtry to will your work into being without it, the work is recognized as"uninspired"—possibly the worst critique you can receive, because it insinuatesyou're mechanical, soulless. On the other hand, trying to force yourself to "beinspired" is like trying to think more clearly by squinting.

What you can do is be ready when the moment comes to work. You can be receptive,ready, and audacious.

Stephen King's On Writing is one of the best nononsense guides to the creativeprocess in years. In it, he writes: "Let's get one thing clear right now, shallwe? There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the BuriedBestsellers; good ideas seem to come from literally nowhere, sailing at youright out of the empty sky ... Your job isn't to find these ideas but torecognize them when they show up."

So inspiration may be an unpredictable friend, as inscrutable as an oracle andfickle as a weathervane. But if you're serious about your own creativity, youhave no choice but to try to make it ... well ... scrutable, to salvage awonderful old word. What you can do is improve the odds that your spirit will bemoved by being alert to whatever form inspiration may take.

The recurring theme reflected in my own various passions—from the arts, topolitics, to the spiritual life, to architecture, to baseball—is the ardentbelief that the sparks of inspiration are everywhere. If I remain open to thewild fire they portend and don't hide behind the shutters of cynicism, sooner orlater, one will ignite. In some still-elusive way, inspiration has to be botheverywhere and everywhen, because it isn't a luxury for me. It's not a hobby;it's my life. Everything has to fit, sooner or later, into my insatiable desireto be creative or it feels like my life is backfiring.

For me, this means that I find inspiration in the rainbow flight of wild parrotsover our house in San Francisco, the bells tolling from the church down thehill, the laughter of nursery-school kids walking in the rain, the lived-in faceof an old Filipino newspaper seller, and the chance 1930s postcard stuck intoone of my father's books. If I'm stuck, I look far and wide for the fires thatwill kindle my inspiration. My life revolves around this constant search. If I'mnot on fire, I'm not inspired, and I can't work. If I force it, the work alwayssounds as if it's written in someone else's voice.

When asked what inspires me, I say, "Whatever sets my soul on fire." That meanstravel, books, art, music, photographs, nature, or café conversation. Often asnot, it's the ordinary wonders that do it—the sandal-maker, the mail carrier, ora cantoneiro, a sidewalk tile-setter I met in Lisbon years ago who felt he'dbeen given a gift from God in his ability to lay tile in beautiful, swirlingblack-and-white patterns. As I knelt to watch him work, I saw a glint in his eyethat revealed devotion to his craft and gratitude for the gift he'd been given.That inner light has shone on in me till this day.

To immerse myself in the extraordinary, I seek out the paintings of Bonnard, thesymphonies of Mahler, the sculptures of Henry Moore, the nature essays of AnnieDillard, the plays of Eugene O'Neill, the poetry of Philip Levine, the songs ofVan Morrison, the slick lines of a '64 Mustang, and the lilt in my son's voicewhen he says, "Pop." And I can't live without my daily dose of creative fire.Without it, I become neurotic—or grumpy, as my son tells me. But at least I knowI'm not alone in this...