it is abrupt, this desire to make, and it captures me completely when it arrives.
when i am most unexpectant, it seizes me like a bird settling upon my shoulders. claws digging into the warm, soft flesh, and i am lifted away from the house and the children, the responsibilities and distractions.
it is impossible to describe where i am taken, for everything is moving. the ideas like water, moving both towards and away from me all at once.
the images of what could be adrift like clouds before the wind.
my feet beneath me move too quickly to find sure footing, and after i am freed from the crazed bird of making, the only proof that i ever left the mundane is in the maddened scribbles i find laying around on bits of paper.
surely, it is magic, though it seems to be fueled by sunshine and silence. it is not a predictable sort of magic, where i can expect to find it in the same places or be caught by the same manner, nor a trick to be discovered or foiled. not even the sunshine and silence can force it upon me, but they merely draw me closer and closer to those random moments where i am snatched from the routine and drawn up into this dreamlike state.
as i sit in the brightly lit room at the back of the house, my eyes dart about, seeking his shadow, and my ears strain to hear those wings when there is no other noise to be had. but no, these are merely the hallucinations of desire, though i know he stands close by, waiting to catch me unawares.
there is a part of me that dreads his advent, as though he were the large, squawking raven of Poe's nightmare (i do not doubt that on occasion he will appear as such). i despair of his arrival, as the dishes will await my return, and the children will be the call that brings me back. if only i could schedule this flight, and prepare this home for my departure; wash the dishes, sort the laundry, kiss the children and tell them to behave while mommy takes a trip into her mind and workshop.
from the moment my toes touch again to the kitchen floor or i find myself again at the desk, i am bewildered at the house and children, glancing towards the clock as though it will give some explanation for their frenzied nature or the time i have lost between worlds.
i can almost see myself, in that moment, with the wailing infant upon my hip and the toddler harrying at my knees. i am sure there is a sauce pan or cooking spoon in my hand, and my hair escapes the bird's nest atop my head to float around my face. there is some manner of glitter or paint upon my shirt, no doubt it has found my pants, shoes, fingernails, and even my face as well, and my demeanor is either one of complete ineptitude or resigned forbearance. these are the moments i expected, and they completely ground me again in my role as housewife and mother.
it is not as though i wish for an escape; these domesticities leave me breathless in their tenderness, and i yearn to create a haven for my small family. loving them well drives my actions and thoughts, though i am very far from the mother i wish to be.
in those moments apart, when i find myself captive to this creativity, i only hope that i can inspire them, in turn, to be willing parties to their inborn passions. to go freely into those moments and come out again to the responsibilities still awaiting their actions. i do not doubt that they have their own birds, and are drawn away from their chores, only to hear my voice bringing them home again.
these thoughts begin to fade from my mind and i hear again the call of the children, the ticking of the clock, and i have to leave abruptly, though my musings are never really finished. there are thoughts here to be fleshed out, and whether or not it happens is yet to be seen.
it is an appalling thing to think these words may be read and judged, as i must also be as the mind behind them, but i cannot hold them in for fear of criticism. no, i hold them out, in all vulnerability, in the hopes that someone will read and understand, maybe even find a familiarity in them. you, my friend, are the reason why i write.