There have been many dreams lately and some of them horrific. Shocking. Ones I felt I needed to apologize for. But then, would I only be apologizing to myself for letting out what needs to be seen, heard, and felt?  So no apologies.

This morning’s dream ended with words from the muse. How often are we directly addressed by the one who sits with us when we write, the one we set aside while we grieve, or work our non-writing jobs, how patiently she waits for us while we’re “busy” doing other stuff.  This morning’s dream ended with her telling me that writers (the ones I look up to) are not authors living half lives. They live their creativity one hundred percent.  They don’t give half their day to selling auto parts and the other half to writing, trying to catch their breath and keep up with the mundane parts of life in between.  No.  Those writers (and one entrepreneur) are living it every day.  When I realized this, now wide awake, it was enough to drive me out of bed before dawn. I left the bed where I think too much, read junk food novels to salve me, and waste so much time thinking “might have been,” went outside and smelled a woodsmoke morning.  Birds making ribbons in the air, adorning trees, the cold on my face, me hating that but realizing there is no perfect summer moonrise over the ocean without the chill air of November morning.

I journaled. Answered the question Katie asked me to meditate upon and I think I’ve found sufficient answer.  Got inspired to re-do my business cards, turned around and discovered I gave myself the morning I wanted and needed.  It feels good.  I hope to carry that with me as I navigate the rest of the day, meeting other people’s needs as decently as possible.

It’s too soon to think about tomorrow, an early morning that will belong to my job instead of one for me.  My candle tells me it will be here for me tomorrow night.  And now? To look for beauty where it might lie in a kitchen sink, a laundry basket, or a sales floor full of needy people.