Lids heavy from sleep, the deep dark of the house beginning its wakeful glow, I reach for my tortoise shell glasses, slide my slippered feet across the cool tiled floor, and make for the quiet of the couch. Across from where I sit, are the large windows that reveal the red bird perched upon green tree, the over-ripe fruit that litters the ground with deer nibbles, the complete stillness of an otherwise restless world.
The morning is slow and silent. Pre-kid silent. The only real time I have to sit and listen to the soft hum of nothingness hanging in the air. An invitation to entertain my own uninterrupted thoughts; my muse. Though brief, I am invited to exist only as Creator. Not wife or mother or woman. Cross-legged, sleepy-eyed, vulnerable and new. I awake tranquil, and I remain so during these moments when the house has not yet come alive. When I have yet to be five kids deep, and there’s pulling at pant legs and cries and dirty dishes and hurts that I’m supposed to heal. This time is a sanctuary that nourishes my soul to day’s end.
I pause. I breathe. With journal on lap, pen in hand, I listen. I cling to the imaginations and fiction that are just as tangible as the tea cupped between my palms. There are times when inspiration comes and goes, but I have dedicated myself to my work. So even when the sky of creativity turns and grows dark, I create my own light, I write. I practice presence. I let patience and beauty pulse through me and birth them with ink. These moments may outwardly be strung sparsely in time, but I collect and connect them throughout the day, turning random rays of words into entire constellations.