I wake before dawn, the air cool and charcoal dark. Dreams are a quickly evaporating haze and I am surrounded by stillness. Just the way I like my days to begin. I rise and head to my writing desk with a glass of warm water, lemon juice and honey. A few sips. I light two candles; one coconut vanilla, the other a pink salt candle holder. I set the timer on my iphone for ten minutes, cradle a pink quartz crystal in the palm of my hand and meditate in the stillness of a new day holding new promises like delicate blooms in a reed basket. Soft chimes on the timer signal it is time to get to work.
I enter my writing zone trying not to predetermine what I'm going to write about. Words flow from the pen, seemingly along a direct trail from heart to hand. It might be a poem, or a childhood reminiscence. It could be a list of things I need to do, or a list of writing and art projects I want to start on. Sometimes it's a musing on the present state of affairs in my heart, my life or in the world.
I've given myself to writing, poems, essays, short stories not by choice but by some universal cosmic design that has overtaken me ever since I was a little girl. I see it as a calling, and a very joyful one at that.
I spend about a half hour on the pages of my spiral notebook while just behind me the morning turns silver and birds begin to chirp, hummingbirds flutter their delicate wings and come to sip the sugar water in their feeder. The sky turns pink then yellow then blue strung with gauzy white clouds. My muse becomes restless. She doesn't like daylight. But I am working on gently coaxing her out into daylight so I might have more moments to write. So I might uncover more poems and remember more times of my life to write about.
I am a writer. I know this and I remind myself of it every morning.