Where Do Ideas Come From?
During our recent class, one of the main topics of discussion was the question of where ideas come from, and more specifically, where our ideas come from. Taking the time to stop and think about the concept of “ideas” and their origins isn’t something I’ve really explored before. Normally, ideas just happen; they arrive fully formed, and I’m so focused on understanding what the idea is, and what threads of thought or inspiration branch from it, that I rarely pause to ask where it came from in the first place. I suppose part of that is because, in the moment, I worry about forgetting the idea altogether, about it flitting away like a butterfly dancing quickly from one plant to the next before disappearing from sight.
When it came to thinking about where our ideas come from, the three of us in my breakout group began to talk about when during the day our ideas tend to occur. I’ve always felt that mine arrive most readily in the morning, especially in that hazy hour just after waking. I’ve always been an early bird; no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to sleep in, and my body wakes almost like clockwork at the same time each morning. That time of day is my favourite, particularly when the nights are long and the sunrise stretches on forever, the sky shifting from soft milky pinks to burning oranges and reds before settling into the blue-grey of the day ahead. It’s during this time, when the world still feels half-asleep, that I’m most open to receiving ideas.
I don’t think ideas belong to the individual; I think they hover just above us, like a cloud of mist, and come to those who are receptive to them. We need to make ourselves open, to give space to their arrival, and to be tuned into the right wavelength to receive them. Just because you own a radio doesn’t mean you’ll hear anything until it’s switched on and tuned in, much like our minds when it comes to ideas.
A few years ago, I watched an interview with a musician, though I can’t remember who, who spoke about where their melodies and compositions came from. They described the notion that all music already exists, and that they were simply dialled in at the right moment to receive it. That thought has always stayed with me. It reminds me of how, throughout history, several people have made the same discoveries at the same time, in completely different parts of the world, without ever communicating. It’s as though they were all tuned into the same frequency, reaching for the same idea.
As I’ve gotten older and my life has become more noisy, busy, and at times overwhelming, I think it’s important to protect my mornings as a slower time when I can note down ideas and think at a gentler pace. As the day goes on and I’m working, commuting, trying to eat, and keeping up with all the things we need to remember to do as adults, I find there isn’t as much space for ideas to arrive. By the time I’m home at the end of the day, my battery is running on empty, and I feel as though I’ve just stepped off a long-haul flight and don’t quite know whether I’m coming or going.
The moments just after waking are also crucial. Those hazy memories of dreams still hovering near the surface can offer something worth noting before they vanish entirely. I want to make a conscious effort to be on my phone less and reduce my screen time, to try to rewire my habits and see if that helps create more space for reflection on my practice and for new ideas to develop.
Protecting that routine feels like it is the first step in helping me to prioritise my practice.
