Last night the figurative flood of thoughts came while I literally washed my hands. The words connected into fragments then sentences. My brain edited and started again, replacing a beginning, changing a term. No, I don’t like that. Oh that’s good, follow that alliteration. Where can you take it next? The words tripped over each other trying to stay off the deleted path. You need a pen. Get a pen! You’re going to lose it if you keep going. Get a pen already!

Then I pushed it away. I had things to do. I didn’t have time to write. I rarely have time to write. The moments when words demand that I sit with them for awhile, they are fewer now, or maybe I am used to ignoring them.

Well, last night I didn’t. I wrote for 20 minutes and nothing fell apart. My husband gave me space. My kids were curious, but entertained themselves. I didn’t write much. I am not particularly thrilled with what I wrote. More, I am pleased with the action. I call this practice or progress or both. Now to do it more. My voice counts and when the muse shows up, I want to heed her whisper. When she doesn’t show up, I still need to do the work. Here’s to first steps and making time.