I laid in bed last night, tossing between the “I’m freezing” and “wow, I’m warm under this blanket”.
I began thinking about personal things one shouldn’t think about when she should actually be falling asleep. And in it, a short story began forming. The words came effortlessly as I laid there in the blackness. I did my best to retain them because I liked them. Imagery I’d never considered using in any of my writing fit perfectly with what my mind was storytelling.
But they were all gone but a few phrases this morning. Faded with the setting moon. And now I dig deep into those pre-sleep recesses in my mind.
Sunday I wrote about how my art causes me to be my realest. This morning, I am confronted with this again as I see those personal thoughts formed into a story. How I was faced with dealing with it rather than stuffing it inside.
Perhaps the point of my mentally writing that story was simply so I could process. So I could be vulnerable with myself. To face the things and feelings I’d rather avoid.
This doesn’t mean I stop searching those recesses. That I don’t stop striking the flint in order that the spark may ignite and the story pours back out.
Stories, art take time. Sometimes they need to incubate. Sometimes the paint needs to dry and we need to walk away for a “season”.
And when the wait is over, we will be here. With paint brush or keyboard. With pen & journal. With soul open to the art.
