I feel myself sliding into art mode, watching my half-filled canvases for clues, laying awake in the darkness listening for their whispers, half-hoping that when I awake they will be finished - completed by art-elves or fairies who have snuck in during the night, brushes in hand, knowing the direction I want to take. I sit & stare at these canvases, even the just gessoed ones - I watch how the shadows move across the textures I have chosen, looking for a sign, waiting for that moment of magical knowledge, when the painting reveals itself to me & I know how to proceed. I read notes to myself found in the bottom of my purse, where several small journals reside, and I am surprised to find that a few words jotted down 2 years ago suddenly make things clearer. I find that I am still interested in stillness, but the stillness surrounding actions, big or small. I find I am interested in the suggestions of things or people or events, rather than the things themselves. I feel myself pulling in to myself, preparing, knowing it will come, that I cannot stop it, that I don't want to stop it. I turn inward, going through my day noticing small things, small feelings, the touch of a windblown flower petal as it careens past, the shadow of a bird's wing. I study the trees and find them watching me in return. I remember the hawk flying fast & low across our path, golden red feathers shining in the sunlight, silhouettes of trees dark behind his flight, then the light sky, then dark, then light, then dark again & he is gone - disappeared into, part of that darkness. It all seems important. It all is important.
I must pay attention.