When I’m tired, the words don’t flow like they usually do. Inspiration is lost by the sheer effort needed to form cohesive thought.
But all this helps:
Watching the river roll by
Swinging in the hammock
Giggling over a funny book
Crying over a sad song
Closing all the browser tabs
Opening the King James Version
Listening for the evening robin
It’s enough, for now.
Enough to stop reaching for things and let them come to me instead.
Enough to be content without creating content.
Enough to rest and receive from the larger sweep of the narrative.
Sometimes you’re the narrator, and sometimes you’re just listening in from the edge of the firelight.
It’s ok, I tell myself. You’re still in the story.