"You spend money to make more money," the businessmen chant, in shameless materialism.It's true, though. It isn't hard to want to accept Grace, when a day has been spent offering it.
Grace comes through patches of hush. Grace seeps through the pores of dusk and twilight, announcing the changes of roles. Grace is to be able to witness ourselves morph from our dutiful selves to our magical selves.
My cue to receive grace usually comes in the groggiest moments after a nap. (A nap marks the change of day. The switch in my ultradian rhythm, from machine to magi.) There is usually a moment when groggy is actually an invitation to join the muses in their play. To ignore the world and just write.
To succumb, yet again, to another kind of Unknown.
Compassionate detachment is easier to cultivate and harvest by the end of a busy day. It isn't hard to find the drive to be creative when you've spend eight hours being boring. It's easier to stoke the primal energies when you've spent the day being straight and square.
Ha. After so long, finally the rebel stirring in my loins got its logic satiated: "Not never. Just not yet."