the dance

Sitting in the now quiet house, ideas begin to flow like electric current to a light bulb. How to get them to their destination becomes the issue, as the often half formed ideas flit about in a haphazard fashion. Some begging to be released, while others cling to the corners as if they are afraid to be released in the time tested tradition of pen to paper.

Plagued by self doubt, the writer pecks at the keyboard for a few moments, then drifts as eyes stray to the pencil, standing almost stoically in the kitten covered mug that is spending its eternity as a pencil holder. Often, it is not the tap tap of the keys on the keyboard, but the drag of the pencil across the paper that enables the thoughts to be released and allowed to flow unimpeded across the pages of the notebook. It is the dance of the writer, performed to an audience of sleeping children, pets, and the often neglected husband. Sleep comes easily to them, but not the writer.

Until most recently, the inability to fall into the same sleeping patterns like the other members of the house was seen as a detriment. Something to rant against when engaged in conversation with others, and a reason for taking the offerings of the family healer. This masking provided a sense of normalcy to the writer, and was not taken for the gift that was. The gift that it is. For it is in these moments that the dance begins, and the stories unfold.