Your writing prompt this week is
FAITH
For many, this word equates to religion and a particular faith. For others, it may mean a lack of faith. I like to think about it in positive terms and having faith in something – whether it’s religion or a person, perhaps a teacher, friend or family member. It could be broadened out to a mean having faith in a concept, an organisation, a government, a society, a theory and much more. What does it mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt INSPIRATION.
And also for you
Inspiration is for me
the Spirit guiding me to see
and smiling when I do what He
has told me I should do.
Inspiration waits around the corner. Damn thing doesn’t show itself right away. No it waits in silence for the unsuspecting sucker to stumble into it. “Got a dollar for some soup,” it whispers. Best pay up or it may not be there next time.
I sat alone at a corner table of a crowded café, my vanilla latte and my iphone on the table as my eyes looked all around me for inspiration.
A toddler drop his cookie, then offer the crumbled mess to a stranger. The child’s mother was about to scold her son, but the man laughed and took a piece.
Across the room, two teenagers argued about which superhero had the better moral compass. At the next table, a woman talked softly to a sympathetic friend about a breakup, wiping her eyes with a napkin that had the word “smile” printed on it, along with a bright yellow happy face.
My latte had grown cold, my iPhone untouched. But my mind buzzed as I looked around.
I realized that, as a blogger, particularly one who blogs from a smartphone, I didn’t need a dedicated writing room, a mountaintop retreat, or my finger on the pulse of the latest viral trends for inspiration.
What I needed was people. Real, imperfect, and unscripted people. Inspiration lives in overheard laughter, mismatched socks, awkward hugs, and the tiny, human sparks that often go unnoticed by most.
I started tapping away on my iPhone. I wrote, “Today, I watched tiny, real moments of life happen in a crowded café. It wasn’t loud. But it was all the inspiration I need to fill pages.”
He stood with his back to the station
Suppose he was waiting for inspiration
The train was just pulling in
He put his tablet in the alligator skin
The bag matched the boots he wore
Showing off maybe, or something more?
The train puffed a bit of smoke
When she appeared through it, inspiration woke.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her
Dressed in a coat trimmed with white fur
He stood straight and made his way
Over to her and asked if he may
Carry her bags, in a gentleman’s proffer
She said why yes, that’s a nice offer
He would be happy to, furthering pursue
She relinquished her cases, it was his coup
Such meetings an off chance you’ll meet your mate
He thought he might have though remained sedate
He was sure she was used to having men take her side
So attractive he thought they can’t be denied
He carried the bags into the hotel
She carefully looked back at him, his chest swelled
“Can I offer a drink as a thank you?” She asked.
“Ah, yes, that would be lovely, but these are no task.”
This story could go on with more romantic play
But I think their future has no arrière-pensée.
I’m inspired by selfless acts of kindness,
not by hidden agendas.
Seeing others
performing amazing physical feats of skill or training
inspires me to try harder.
Realizing there are
angels, both seen and unseen,
that step in when needed
inspires me. To know I matter.
One is all.
Now is always.
You were
Inspiration
My motivation, my
Reason to strive, to fight, to live,
To love.
Today was, in most ways, much like any other. I woke, I dressed, I brewed my coffee by touch and memory, and I listened to the chorus of morning sounds outside my window—a world coming to life beyond my reach, yet never beyond my presence. There is a quiet rhythm to these days, each one threaded together by routines both comforting and mundane. Yet it strikes me how often others view my life through a lens distorted by assumption, one that transforms my existence into a headline: “Blind, but an Inspiration.”
I want to write about that word—inspiration—and all the ways it clings to me, unwanted and uninvited, like a label stitched into the fabric of my identity. Sometimes it feels as though the world mistakes living with blindness for something extraordinary, as though my ability to make toast or navigate city streets is a feat worthy of applause. I know this is meant to be kind, to uplift, to encourage, but it leaves me feeling unseen in the most essential, human sense.
It’s not that I dislike the word inspiration itself. I have been inspired many times—by the quiet patience of a friend waiting for me to find the right words, by the laughter of children on a playground, by the resilience of those who have weathered storms far harsher than my own. Inspiration, in its true form, is a spark passed between souls, igniting possibilities, kindling hope. But when the world looks at me, I sometimes sense that the inspiration they see is not a spark, but a spotlight—harsh, glaring, and isolating.
I remember a time last winter when I was grocery shopping. My cane tapped along the tiles, mapping the aisles in gentle arcs. I filled my basket with the familiar: bread, eggs, apples, a bar of chocolate for the evenings. At the checkout, the cashier looked at me, her voice brimming with pride she seemed to feel on my behalf. “You’re such an inspiration,” she said, as she scanned each item. “I don’t know how you do it.”
How I do it? The same way you do, I wanted to say. By habit, by necessity, by the routines that shape a life. I didn’t scale a mountain to get here. I needed groceries.
There are moments, I confess, when I wish I could pull back the curtain and reveal the ordinariness of my life in all its shades: the laundry unfolded on the armchair, the times I lose my keys and curse under my breath, the late-night snacks I regret the next morning. There is nothing heroic in these moments—just a person, getting by, sometimes with grace, sometimes in frustration.
I’ve learned to sense the weight of expectation in certain spaces. When I meet someone new and they discover I am blind, I can almost hear the shift in their tone, the questions edged with awe. “How do you manage?” “You must be so brave.” And underlying it all, the implication: to live with blindness is to live heroically, endlessly overcoming.
But the truth is simpler and far less remarkable. I adapt. I adjust. I struggle, sometimes. I laugh, I grieve, I love. My blindness is neither a prison nor a superpower—it’s a facet of my experience, as much a part of me as my stubbornness, my fondness for music, or my delight in good conversation.
I wonder, sometimes, why the world is so quick to seek inspiration in disability. Is it because people fear what they do not understand? Is it a way to distance themselves from vulnerability—by transforming the unfamiliar into something noble, rather than merely different? I do not have all the answers. What I know is that the word “inspiration” can serve as both compliment and cage.
I would rather be seen for who I am—complex, imperfect, wholly human—than elevated to a pedestal I never asked to climb. I want my friendships to be forged in mutual respect and affection, not out of admiration for my “overcoming.” I want my achievements to be recognized on their own merit, not filtered through assumptions about my blindness. And above all, I want permission to fail, to falter, to have bad days and lazy afternoons, without that being interpreted as a triumph or a tragedy.
There are, of course, moments when inspiration is real and mutual. I am inspired by the kindness of strangers who offer help without pity, by the designers who make technology more accessible, by the advocates who fight for equality in the classroom and the workplace. I am inspired by the unwavering support of my family, who see me not as a symbol, but as a sibling, a child, a confidant. In these connections, inspiration is not a label, but a bridge.
Tonight, as I write, the city outside has quietened. I run my fingers over the Braille keys, letting my thoughts spill onto the page. I am blind, yes, and there are challenges that come with it. There are days when frustration blooms, when I long for the ease of sight, when I tire of explaining, advocating, adapting. But there are also days of laughter, of deep contentment, of music so vivid it paints pictures only I can see.
I suppose this diary, too, is a sort of bridge—a way to invite others into my world, not as spectators seeking inspiration, but as fellow travellers on the winding road of existence. If you find anything here that moves you, let it be the recognition that we are all, in our way, navigating with imperfect maps. My blindness is neither the beginning nor the end of my story; it is simply a thread in the tapestry, woven alongside so many others.
Tomorrow, I will get up, make coffee, listen to the city, and carry on with the business of living. Not as an inspiration, but as myself.
And that, I think, is enough.
Dog breeds like Huskies and Malamutes, have been bred and trained for centuries to pull sleds and work cooperatively in a team, cats are a different ilk entirely. I believe that the order of mush would be ignored by a team of cats tied to a sled. Cats are an independent breed of animal that must be respected for the independence that they demand.
The inspiration behind a cat’s actions comes from an entirely different direction, the appeal of a dangling toy, a scurrying mouse, or perhaps the thrilling aspect of napping in a sunbeam, their tiny little musk of playful mischief and independent curiosity is what truly guides them. Although these two breeds of animals are totally different in their behavior I adore both cats and dogs.
Things are getting very dire
No thoughts are here to inspire
I think and I think
And tea I do drink
Until it’s late and time to retire.
***
When the prompt says inspiration
I search all over the nation
I google and read
With my muse I do plead
Sheesh – I need a vacation!
***
So in a fit of desperation
I scribble out my frustration
A word and line at a time
I think it turned out fine
So here’s my inspiration creation
Graeme Sandford:
My Inspiration was Birds
Birds flying above me, covering the skies with bodies, beaks, wings, many strident calls, feathers that fell or failed to fall.
Flocks, murders, parliaments, musters, rafts, charms, and so many more – all joining together like a cheap, yet colourful jigsaw, or the extras from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. A hotpotch of many avian aviators that created their own inner sky, a sky that seemed destined to descend upon me. To smother me.
However, I existed, I continued, I survived, and the birds blended together like the tigers running around that tree in that story from my childhood. Into treacle rather than butter, but you know what I mean. Then they were gone. “The birds have flown.” as Charlie One once said – and I was left alone.
again
come sit with me
let’s talk
of how ’twas when
God seemed to rectify
the universe
the world stopped
colors changed
air didn’t move
sky was empty
sounds were muted
everything was the same
yet different
then, a new dawn came
the colors we see are vibrant
the air we breath is fresher
the sky is filled with joyful birds flying
the sounds we hear are hymns
of love and affection
and you can come sit with me
again
everything is the same
yet different
Where does my inspiration come from? Anywhere and everywhere!
More often than not, something suddenly pops into my head. Often at three in the morning when I can’t sleep…
It does help to have a prompt, given an open theme, I’m lost.
It always fascinates me that, in my writing group, every month in our homework, given the same challenge, we all go off in different directions.
When submitting a limerick to the Daily Mail, it is usually about something I’ve read in the latest edition, increasing my chances of publication.
***
Esther Chilton 
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