Listening for the Nudge

Instinct as a creative companion

Let’s talk about instinct.

Instincts, to my understanding, are evolved behavioral tendencies. Tendencies we can say are encoded in the nervous system through genetics. Beyond the scientific framing, though, most of us know instinct in a much more intimate way. For me, instincts show up as a nudge. A pull. A tug at my awareness. And, without sounding too woo, a quiet knowing that often arrives without explanation.

I would assert that we’ve all heard stories, or encountered our own experiences, like this. A sneaking suspicion that something isn’t quite right. A gut feeling about a person that later proves true. An inner signal that invites us to choose a different path, interrupt an old pattern, or follow a thread that somehow works out in our favor. All I’m saying is that instinct doesn’t always present as a 30-foot-tall billboard in Times Square. It’s often much gentler. What I’ve noticed, however, is that it always asks for our attention.

Instinct shows up in the creative process, too. Often as a felt sense of whether or not we’re on the right track. It appears as a flicker of excitement, a subtle resonance, a quiet yes in the body. What I like to call a fleck of gold. When we notice it and get curious, when we follow the tug of an idea and see it through, something begins to unfold.

One thing I believe is vital to creativity is developing an intimate relationship with the process itself. Rather than treating creativity as a means to an end, I see it as a living, responsive relationship. One that asks us to listen closely, stay present, and peel back the layers of the creative onion until we reach the core, where all the good stuff lives.

I’ve been practicing this a lot lately. Perhaps that’s why I feel so inspired to share it with you, my fellow creative on the path. I believe there’s something powerful about sharing our experiences, especially when it comes to letting the creative impulse guide us instead of trying to steer it. Sitting with openness. Turning those flecks of gold over slowly, patiently. This feels essential. What I’ve discovered is that sometimes, when I do this, I realize I’ve been sitting on a pot of gold all along.

Then comes the audacity of sharing the work.

This is where I am right now, moving through the final draft of a book and other writing projects that feel deeply connected to this practice. They feel like extensions of the very questions I’ve been living with for years. Questions that once felt abstract now feel personal. Anticipatory. Alive. And also tender.

What I’m learning is that sometimes it isn’t about answering the questions. It’s about sitting with them long enough that we begin to live the answers. That, I’ve found, may be the greatest teacher of all.

This isn’t something anyone can teach you.

The gift lies in presence. In curiosity. In wonder. In respecting the process. In following the instinctual inclination to create the thing that wants to be born, and trusting that insights and gifts will reveal themselves along the way.

Creativity inspires me. It moves me. It animates my life. And I believe it animates yours, too, whether or not you call yourself an artist. It’s a force we don’t speak about nearly enough.

What I’ve come to understand is this:

to the degree that I cultivate a relationship with myself,
is the degree to which I cultivate a relationship with my creativity.

They are not separate.
They never were.

Questions to Carry:
What does my body already know that my mind keeps trying to negotiate with?
If my creativity is in relationship with me, what is it asking for more of, and what is it asking me to release?