At the moment I have run out of painting/drawing projects. There is nothing of that kind waiting in a notebook somewhere, hoping to catch my attention. Nothing is plucking at my sleeve hoping to be noticed.
Suddenly, however, I find myself writing again. On this occasion the subject came out of the blue, but triggered a series of autobiographical reflections. I found myself thinking about the surprising recommendation to me of the journals of Kierkegaard, by my father, when I was still in school. We never discussed that. Why? In retrospect it seems to me to be quite out of the usual line of his reading–in fact, I never thought of him as a great reader. It is interesting and sometimes strange the way in which entirely arbitrary events can lead one into paths that turn out to be important in the longer term. It is also troubling to realise in retrospect that opportunities for relationships, which might have turned out to be valuable, were never noticed at the time.
Having spent the afternoon reflecting on the train of thought this set into motion, I am impressed by the way in which the stream of creative energy can burst through in quite unpredictable ways. I wonder where it will carry me.