It is 5:45 AM. I'm tired. I went to bed a little after 11:00. My eyes burn, my eyelids begin to ease down over them, I force them open. I feel a little hollow. Sometimes when I'm awake at this hour, it's because I can't sleep. Other times my body has had enough of lying in bed, sore from sleeping. Not today. If I curled up into a ball on the couch, I would be asleep within 2 minutes.
I am awake to claim some time. The morning is still and quiet. The clocks tick, the fish tanks hum. I hear the cheap wind chimes blow in the backyard. I hear doves cooing and mistake them for children calling me. The darkness is a blanket. It blurs the edges of life a little so that I can float here for just a bit before my children wake. My bed calls, but I resist. The doves, they are not my children.
Writing calls me earlier this morning. I fell asleep, words in my head, my brain trying to make sense of them, trying to form them into something meaningful and coherent. My brain is on fire, and yet, sometimes I ignore it. Out of laziness, or fear, or exhaustion. A long list of other responsibilities my logical self deems more important. But what happens when a person ignores what is calling them? What if that person is a mother? What is the cost to herself and her children? What calls you in the quiet, still moments? Listen...
The Artist’s Journey, #19
1 day ago