I seem to have become a night owl. I seem to be staying up later and later, sliding into the nightquiet like an animal into water.
Night is when stillness happens.
Night is when time opens up.
Sometimes at night I read: blogs, books, the paper. Sometimes but rarely I watch: tv, youtube. Sometimes and often, I listen to my favourite music. Often and almost always, I write my days and dreams down here.
But tonight I've been working on my stories. Writing, changing, planning, thinking, dreaming… Tonight I crawled inside my words and it felt so fine. So good to work on them. So good to write new words too.
When I'm writing it's like I'm inside my truest self. I become aware of everything, all around. My senses come alight and alive and everything—all around and inside me—feels like it fits.
Behind me and through the open window, I can hear the frogs clicking and popping by the pond. Out front, I hear crickets and the scuttle of a possum. The windows are open and a breeze drifts in.
The cat and the kitten rustle and wrestle behind me. They won't leave each other alone. When the tussle becomes too big, I throw a soft pillow. They scramble, tear apart. But minutes later, they're back together. I'm still trying to work out if it's love.
I have left my stories for a long time, let the book-in-the-making wait. Because in all the busy and the beautiful, it feels too hard to fit the "One More Thing" in that is my writing. But tonight, I roused myself. I made myself dig out those words, waiting as they were on a hardly-ever-used computer. I read, altered, added… I mused and created in the nightdark for hours.
And lightness came. And a feeling of clear and clean and true. I thought, Here I am.