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Sunday. This is the day I promised myself that I would go to the Friends’ Meeting. Instead I find myself here, perched in the loft, in front of my computer, listening to the throw of words below me, as seven children—five mine and two guests—gather for breakfast. The press of chores surrounds me—there is no place that my eyes can fall that doesn’t need the turn of my fingers. And there are invisible chores, too, bills and forms and the sorting of funds. But still, with all of these mundane voices stumbling into static in my head, I am here, because I haven’t written in days, because I am filled with fermenting thoughts, bubbling, and I want to pull the top off the bottle, I want to tune myself to one station, one voice, the one that waits within for the moment to rise to the surface and tell me a new story about the world of my heart.

I had two days away. Two days amongst adults, with only fleeting hugs and kisses quick on the cheeks of my children, two days of readers and writers, those accomplished and those who have years yet to persevere. The affirmation of the creative process, the exploration of the worlds that we weave with our words, with our imaginations, the tiny miracle that happens when we open to voices and landscapes that dwell deep within us: how I had thirsted for this drink! I held my cup to the flow of stories and verse, I drank it’s sweet milk and put my cup there, again, to drink and drink till I was fattened and nourished and ready for the winter of my own work.


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