We can all create – we just need one thing

We can all create we just need one thing

What do I have in common, as I sit here, with the multitude of creative, artistic and talented individuals around the globe? What is it I seek that successful actors, sports people, musicians and writers have sought through the annals of time? It's a simple thing. It is real yet intangible. It cannot be taught, yet can be learned. It can differentiate two equally talented people to success or failure. Its presence is up-lifting, its absence lethargic and black. Those who have discovered it have progressed to a magnitude of wonderful things. Those who have not levitate to entropic uncertainty and ultimately do not realise their ambitions. It can leave us as easily as it attaches itself to us. We can improve our chances of finding and keeping it, yet our delicate emotional tendencies can easily lose grip of it.

It comes in and from many forms, each specific to our individual needs. It can put non-believing monsters to rest; it's too late'; dreams are for dreamers'; or you're not talented enough to do that'. It can move somebody to fulfil their dream. It is Inspiration.

I had an inspirational moment, a moment that led to me write this blog; a moment that ultimately drove me to come up with the concept of www.mudboard.com . It wasn't a moment of high drama, big budget explosions, literary prizes, world influencing songs or Oscar-winning performances. No, my inspirational moment came from something so innocuous, so microcosmic in the totality of life, but yet so unexpectedly.

The setting is a train ride from inner city Melbourne in Australia to one of the outer suburbs it was about 11pm. I can picture them now, a father and young daughter returning home from a football game both quietly, in thought and whispers, reminiscing on the night's game. Both were supporters of the losing team, a team that had been humiliated by the opposition. But both father and daughter were able to take it at face value. The father was proud to have his young daughter by his side; the daughter played up to her father in a cheeky manner. This alone was an endearing moment, yet not inspirational. The carriage was half full. There was polite chit-chat all around, each couple or threesome in their own cocoon of conversation. And then, suddenly, the spine tingling sound of strummed steel strings emanated from a lone source, a source that on the surface looked dirty, poor, cold, yet happy. There was a metamorphosis from a train' to a theatre' as feet started tapping to the melody. The tired looking conversationalists were now encompassed in melodious silence; abundant smiles appeared, people somewhat moved by this unforseen event. Ironically, the busker could not sing an in-tune note, but it mattered not his appearance was also irrelevant. It was the enchanting instrumental sound, and more piquantly the inspiration of performance that moved me, and probably some of the others, in the carriage that night.

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