It’s quiet. Edge and Waylon sleep, while I sit in the rocking chair next to a crackling fire. Night has become my time; everyone is sleeping, there is no work to be done, and I can stretch out my writing as long as I can stay awake.
The other day I heard an interview with songwriter and producer Pharell, and while talking about a movie studio rejecting seven of his songs before finally accepting the eighth, he said, “That stillness of nothing is when you can ask a clear question and get a clear answer back.”
After days spent at work in front of a computer, or at home with Waylon, nighttime brings me stillness. I love my days, and the contrast of their movement allows me to appreciate and sink even deeper into the stillness.
Some nights I don’t write at all.
Sometimes it takes me days to put pen to paper.
Sometimes I cannot stop the flow of words from heart to hand to paper.
And then there are moments like this one here, when I sit for a long while between sentences, filled with emptiness: the rich kind of emptiness that all possibility arises from, and the space between words is wide and still.
Finally, sleep pulls me away, but not before giving thanks. The last words in every journal entry are thank you. Always thank you. For what? For nothing, for stillness, for the blessings yet to come.