This morning, as I sit at my computer reading mail, a bird flies into the glass window. Stunned, he sits still on the deck, only his tiny mouth opening and closing. It can go two ways, of course, this slamming into a solid object: he will die from the injuries, or he will sit a moment gathering his strength, clearing his head, and fly off.
Last night, I was trying to prepare for my weekly session with my writing coach. I felt discouraged, and considered calling the other girl who meets with us to tell her to take the whole forty-five minutes and I'll see them next week (see note below). I couldn't seem to come up with any way to gracefully end the piece I've been working on.
This morning, I sit up in bed, and something comes to me. I hurry in, sleepy-eyed, ignore my husband sitting at the counter, and scribble it down. It sounds okay, and I feel more ready to take the writing in for discussion.
I am finding my writing rhythm. Nighttime is for revision, when my mind is on the rational, trained from working with numbers all day. Morning is for the inspirational, when I can draw from my dreams and rest.
And like the bird, I was a little stunned by hitting the writing wall last night. But during the night, I slept and gathered strength, and this morning was able to take tentative flight on getting the story right.
An added note: My writing friend had the same thought as I, to cancel coming. I'm glad we came. The reading and listening was good for us both.