Return to the well

My first husband was a jazz musician, and one of the many attractions of the woman he finally left me for was that her ex-husband, with whom she still resided, had a terrific music studio with all kinds of instruments and recording equipment.

So at some point my ex rented the studio for a week, intending to make a record all by himself, as he could play most instruments and could get electronic renditions of those he hadn't yet mastered.

But after a week he was very disappointed in the results.  It emerged that however impatient he might be with the inferior calibre of the other musicians he worked with, he needed their input; needed that different way of seeing and hearing and being and playing in the world, and without that his work was dry and uninspired.

We artists need so much alone time to create that we tend to assume that's all we need; that to go out into the world is somehow an intrusion, an interruption to our creative process, when, in fact, we need the refreshment those interrupts provide.  We humans cannot grow alone; we need to be prompted by the interrupts of the world; need the inspiration provided by other ways of being and seeing. However irritating it may sometimes be, it's through that interaction with the rest of creation that our souls are truly fed.

And so this little song appeared in my head this morning:

You must return to the well, my friend;
You must return to the well.
The memory of water is never enough:
You must return to the well.