For the first time in my life, I’ve submitted something to a call for proposals. — Lie. The first time was two years ago, when I submitted a poster design for my hometown’s annual town celebration. No, I didn’t win, and yeah, it stung. Just like it probably stung for everyone else who submitted something, working away with a mental hot dog of victory dangling in front of their eyes—one they never got to eat.

This morning I told Albert that I find it strange, working on a project without knowing if I’ll be the one to actually carry it out. And he, who’s been through loads of these calls —and has actually won a few— told me I was wrong. That I should just think of the project as mine. That’s all. Gotta love those kinds of comments that shut you up without needing to show off.

Now that I think about it though, maybe submitting to a call for proposals is just another way of waiting for a miracle. Like getting on a random bus and starting to write, hoping that the randomness of an ordinary morning will spark off some idea that hasn’t decided to come out yet. These free-flowing texts aren’t just improvisation — they’re the result of a backlog of thoughts that didn’t know how to queue. I write to sort through the noise, but also —and mainly— to find ideas that, once connected, create some kind of inner click.

Because miracles and ideas only show up when you don’t know where to look. Like when you’re obsessed with cracking a project, and you don’t — until you give up and start something else, or close your eyes for a nap, or start chatting with someone about anything but the thing that’s been driving you mad. The ideas are out there, just not where you expect. But just because they’re not where you’re looking doesn’t mean you should stop looking.

This all might sound like I’m trying to let myself off the hook, like ideas are some kind of random magic that just falls from the sky. And I don’t believe that. It’s just that you can’t predict how you’re going to make connections between what’s around you and what needs solving. I think it was Kae Tempest who said in their brilliant book On Connection: “You can’t predict where the connection will happen. You can only prepare yourself to receive it.”

Maybe if I look up now, I’ll see the key that unlocks one of the projects I’m stuck on — in the empty seat next to me. Or maybe it’ll drop into the lap of the girl sitting in front when she stands up. But it won’t matter if my eyes aren’t open to catch it and my mind isn’t tuned in enough to make something of it.

Thing is, this version that reads so neatly here — that’s actually what I struggle with the most. Keeping at it for days, weeks, when I’m finding nothing. When I don’t know if what I’m doing is getting me anywhere or if I’m just shifting dust from one place to another.

Maybe waiting for a miracle just means keeping your cool while you wait.

A hug from the H6 bus,
Ingrid