As the sun rose over the rooftops like a searing ball of flame another day of excessive heat was born.
The couple out for an early morning fitness walk stopped in their tracks and viewed the spectacle.
“I feel so impotent,” said the man.
The woman glanced sharply at him wondering if her long term partner and father of her children was about to reveal some emergent sexual problem.
The man, oblivious to how his words had been misconstrued, continued on: “I mean, what can I do? Out there across the country bushfires are burning out of control while record breaking floods swamp the north east. Millions of fish have died in the extreme weather affecting the inland river systems. Across the world beneficial insects and bees are dying.”
The woman shifted uncomfortably. These thoughts had been on her mind too. “And still governments refuse to act on climate change,” she muttered.
“I could volunteer for the emergency services,” the man reflected, “but I doubt I’d be much use. I’m a scrawny artist guy not a macho fire fighter.”
“And I’m a writer and poet,” said the woman.
“Make art then,” said a lilting voice beside them. “Write stories. Sing. Dance. Take photos. Create, create, create.”
The couple looked around in confusion. They had thought they were alone. Both gaped as their eyes fell upon a small ethereal being dancing in the sun beams.
“Oh good, you can see and hear me,” the being sang/spoke. “I’ve been working at making myself visible to you. I have a message for you.”
“A message?” the man queried. His tone hovered between aggression and disbelief. Seeing fairies was not something he was accustomed to.
“Yes, yes. Don’t argue. Just listen. I don’t know how long I can hold this form.” The being appeared to flicker in and out of manifestation in the bright sunlight. “This isn’t my natural state you know.”
“Well who’s the message from,” the man demanded in a practical, no nonsense tone.
“Oh the fairies and all the elementals,” the being said impatiently. “We’re worried. The Earth’s in trouble. We’re trying to contact all the artists, musicians, writers and creatives who are open to new inspiration. It’s time for you all to get busy.”
“I know,” the woman murmured, “but I’ve been feeling so blocked lately. My last book sunk like a stone and I haven’t felt like trying again. I seem to have run out of stories.”
“Put all that aside,” the being advised. Its voice was more kindly now. “There’s no time for all that creative angst any more. After all those creative blocks are really just personal personal obstacles. They are negative by-products of the wounded ego so many of you creatives are afflicted with. Now is the time to heal your wounds and see the bigger picture. Your creative talents are a gift you can use to help heal the world. You can take whatever raw materials you choose to work with – paint, words, musical notation, wood, stone – even food or garden plants – whatever motivates you to create. Take those base materials and transform them into new forms that offer, healing and beauty to you as the creators and to those your work reaches.”
The being dancing in front of the couple blazed in the light like a beacon. “Creativity expressed with intention can make the invisible realms of the imagination visible to others. It can operate as a portal to worlds of expanded consciousness. Shifting hearts and minds in this way allows room for healing.”
The man and woman nodded slowly. The words echoed heart callings they both felt deep down but hardly dared express even to each other.
“The creatives amongst you all are the voice of the time you live in. Creativity is a gift that moves through you. It’s not something you own. It’s greater than you.” The being’s voice rang like a bell in the morning air. “Sure it can bring you undone. It can consume you if you let it. But, if you use the energy in a trans-personal way, it can uplift you and the world around you. It’s time now to heal yourselves and step into your greater role as creative healers.”
As the sun climbed higher in the sky the temperature rose further. The elemental being seemed to dissipate and become part of the white light that beat down upon the dry ground. At the same time the memory of the encounter shifted into the mythic and neither the man nor the woman was entirely what sure what had just occurred.
“Ooh, it’s so hot,” said the woman. “I’ve got to get out the sun. I want to go to my study. I’ve got a feeling those notes I made a while ago might form the basis of new story after all.”
“Yes,” the man mused. “I feel like painting today. I have an urge to express all this.” He flung his arms out wide as if to embrace the world. A faraway expression graced his face. The woman left him to it. She knew him well enough to know some new creative impulse was brewing within him. Talking now would only dilute it. Besides, she had to get home. She had work to do.