We've all heard the stories — the poet who scribbled a masterpiece in a frenzy at 2 am, the painter who saw a vision in a dream and painted through the night, the lightning bolt of inspiration that split the sky and changed everything.

But let me ask you: has that ever really been the full truth of your creative process?

For years, I believed that was how it was supposed to happen. I waited for the surge, the divine flash, the unmistakable knowing that this was the thing I had to make. And yes, sometimes there are sparks like that — beautiful, electrifying moments. But more often than not, my art speaks in whispers, not thunder.

It stirs quietly. A shape forms in my mind before I ever sketch it. A phrase repeats like an echo I can't quite place. Most times I begin creating without knowing why — and only after the piece is complete do I understand the message it carried.

That's not a lightning bolt. That's something slower, deeper, more intimate.

And yet we're conditioned to believe that if inspiration doesn't come loud and fast, it's not real. We chase the high of revelation. We wait until we feel worthy or certain. We tell ourselves that if the muse isn't shouting, we must not be ready.

But what if the muse is whispering, and we've simply forgotten how to listen?

Waiting for the lightning bolt can become a form of avoidance. It's seductive. It lets us stay still, safe, uninvolved. But creativity, real creativity — the kind that changes you — requires a relationship. A willingness to lean in even when the path isn't clear. A trust that what you're being shown, however faint, is enough.

Some of the most potent work I've created didn't start with a vision. It started with a feeling I couldn't name. With an image that made no sense. With a longing that I followed into form. Like my current fascination with structures on a beach.

We don't always need to know what we're creating to begin.

That is the myth we must undo — that creation begins with clarity. Often, clarity comes after. It's the residue of devotion.

If your muse has been quiet lately, maybe she's not absent. Maybe she's just speaking in a softer tone or a different frequency. Maybe she's waiting for you to drop in closer. To breathe. To put your hands on the canvas, the keys, the page — not to perform, but to remember.

You are the conduit. The current flows when you show up. It's often okay to push through and just paint without knowing exactly what it is you are painting.

We are not here to be struck by lightning. We are here to be the lightning — alive, electric, embodied.

So stop waiting for the flash.

Create anyway.

The spark lives in you. 🖌

---

Copyright ©2025 Angela Blaha. All rights reserved.

---