The words in my head simmer and bubble and boil. I give them another
quick stir and lean in to observe the ways they twist and reshape
themselves. Ideas still sit on the counter, rising slowly under their
tea towel. Hot with impatience, words start to jump from the pot. Why
are they always ready before the ideas are?
The snow
comes down and the world is white with inspiration. I stir and measure,
knead and sift, filling the winter morning with carols and prayers and
memories, content to be at my mind's worktable. I dip my hands in, ready
to create something from nothing. As I grind and chop and peel, the
pile of words grows taller and taller. Soul, mind, and hands work in
happy unison. All is peace. All is joy.
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