It was ready.

I checked it one last time, then lovingly packed it up and bundled it in my arms, wrapped my cloak around me and stepped out of the cave into the cool night.

The daylight was just starting to fade and dusk was upon me as I mindfully navigated the damp, rough ground. I held the package tightly while I sought out the lights in the distance, lights that would guide my way.

Some time passed and the cool air heightened my sense of anticipation.

“What would happen when I got there?” I thought, trying to calm the butterflies, shake away the nerves and remember to breathe.

Approaching the twinkling lights, the sounds started to reach my ears.

Cackles & shrieks, music & laughter all mingled with the sad echos of unhappy tethered animals, biding their time and waiting for their opportunity to turn on their human captors.

As I carefully stepped and zigzaged through the multitude of old tents, caravans and makeshift abodes, I nodded in acknowledgement of the obese bearded lady, perched precariously on a small stool and gnashing away at a lipstick stained cigar.

For a moment she seemed to look right through me but soon snaps out of her reverie to admonish two silver sequined little people, who were making a half-hearted attempt at looking remorseful.

At the same time, the smells of sawdust, candyfloss and animal excrement reached my nostrils. I breathed in and quietly basked in the sensation that marked the start of the thrill. A thrill in which the butterflies chose to ignore my warnings of calm and my heart sped up a beat or two.

My grip tightened on my precious package as I held it close to my body and made my way toward the beam of light poking out between the heavy, dark & dirty drapes at the entrance to the big top. I could hear the crowd inside, collectively breathing, laughing, hollerin and a hootin, all ready for the next delight to capture their limited attention spans.

I tentatively pushed the heavy, dusty drapes open simultaneously wondering if I should just slip away, taking my package back into the night, leaving the lights behind me and seeking solace in my cave.

However, I hardly had a second to consider this before a cold & bony hand grabbed my arm and pulled me along beneath the aged wooden bleachers, trampling on dirty, dusty sawdust and into the depths of the Big Top.

The hand belonged to the aging trapeze artist zelda, who was failing in her attempts to make her bony almost skeletal frame look as  glamourous as she perhaps once was.  She pulled my arm, muttering incoherently and led me to the performers entrance to the ring, where several other acts waited patiently in the wings.

The sad clown to my left, ironically looked like someone had pissed on his parade, stolen his prozac and made off with his wife. Even the cute, energetic macaque monkey with it’s jaunty little hat and faded yellow tutu, hanging off the clown’s droopy suit, couldn’t manage to muster a smile from the miserable old jester.

I heard the ringmaster bellow the name of my precious package and before I knew it, it had been prised from my hands and marched out into the centre of the ring. I stood and watched for a while, excited at first but then wracked with doubt about it’s ability to wow the crowds. Rather than suffer the discomfort too long, I turned and made my way back to the heavy drapes, via the dark underbelly of the bleachers.

I moved quickly through the circus ground, wanting to embrace the silence and calm of the night and soon found myself walking across flat ground toward a cool, calm loch beneath the hills.

I walked to the edge of the loch and found a large, flat, dry stone upon which to rest my weary self. I looked back hoping to perhaps hear a faint cheer coming from the Big Top but the circus was gone, all traces of it seemed to have vanished as if it were never there.

I turned back to look at the loch. Something sparkled on the far shore, so I stood up to see if I could better figure out what it was. However no amount of squinting or re-adjusting my focus revealed what it was. I sat back down exasperated and annoyed at not being able to identify the sparkly, shiny thing on the other shore.

My grumbling was interrupted by whispers from the water. Whispers from whiskers just breaking the surface of the cool, placid Loch. I look again and the whiskers have morphed into the raven hair of a beautiful Selkie. She whispers ‘there is time to reach that which you desire, stay a while, be still, there is no rush’

Her smooth, serene voice keeps repeating “there is no rush…there is no rush…” and I was mesmerised.

So I stayed a while, sat firmly on that flat rock and waited for the inspiration that would guide me to the other shore.

My point with this story?

Creating something is a journey.

Putting it out in the world is scary.

Promoting your shiz can be a bit of a circus.

Ultimately you will find a way to cross the loch, be inspired and create something new.

all photos Flickr commons, Cave -Guttorm Flatabø, Circus – George Eastman House; Loch  – atomicjeep  ; Clown -Steinar Johnsen; apart from Monkey – Lorena Siminovich