The Dark Before Dawn

The opossum scuttles across the road, glimpsing briefly at the headlights that unexpectedly lit its path.

The birds rest, heads tucked under their wings.

Even the bugs have found a leaf or blade of grass on which to sit.

`Tis 4 A.M., the bewitching hour, when muses fly and fairies whisper in our ears.

I get so excited in the middle of the night.

Without a doubt, the outer quiet calms my mind.  

Like a racehorse at the starting gate, I gather strength, wait for the bar to go up and explode into a swirling whirlpool of creative juice, a ballerina leaping in pirouette, a Tasmanian devil doing the dervish dance, a crazy, wild and wacky space that knows few bounds and doesn’t tell me where we’re going.

My writer’s keyboard sings to me, begs for freedom, demands to be heard.

I wake usually at around 2 and throw on the closest clothes in order to zip out the door more quickly.

No one questions whether my shirt matches or the stubble on my chin.

No one interrupts my flight of fancy.

At this magical hour, mysteries unfold, plots twist and turn.

I need this special time.

I need it to think and will not settle for excuses labeled business or busy-ness or spouse-ness or children-ness.

No one bothers me at 3 or 4 or 5 A.M.

My imagination spits and sparks, crackles and fires.

I gush with ideas.

If I snatch 60 luscious minutes in the dark before dawn, I can still catch a sweet dream by the time the sun ushers away the delightful shadows that hide the leprechauns.

Ghosts and goblins only torture and challenge us if we wallow under the blankets.

When we get up and about and flirt with the moonlight, midnight monsters vanish in the mist.

I pause to reflect and ponder, search and appreciate.

“Get up, young one,” the voices tell me and I do.

“Off with you,” they order and I go.

I watch one less show and give myself this gift.

I let my arm fall before I reach for a drink.

How much tranquil space can I create, to sit, to re-charge, to determine, to focus on big, important dreams.

Has it been too long since my last escape?

How rich a life might I create within if I stop long enough to look?

The sounds and smells in the wee, wee moments communicate the same message.

“Drink us in,” without the revving engines or their toxic exhaust fumes.

“Pause and take nutriment--” elixir for the soul.

Wobbly legs carry me back to my car for the short ride home.

I chuckle.

“I got away with it again. I stole a dance with an elf and a pixie.”

That’s A View From The Ridge…