It’s 7:14am.

I’ve just poured my coffee, spilled it all over our unfortunately-white countertops. My sleepy hands carry the mug to the breakfast nook in our kitchen. The orangy summer sun is beaming on the east side of the trees. The birds are chirping. That lone black cat is walking through our backyard.

The air feels thin.

The house quiet and I am reflective. This is the special time when I should get out my art journal and supplies and catch the day’s revelations before they pass me by. I feel muse-stricken and should respond accordingly.

I also feel a bit lazy. So I flip open my laptop, of course.

In truth, I flip open my laptop because this moment should be recognized, honored, with a telling. I tell you about when the air feels thin to me, like heaven is an inch closer than yesterday. Like the earth and my soul are both quiet enough that I may be able to hear a still small voice.

I tell you about this moment because it is becoming familiar. I greet it. I make space for it. I expect it.

Maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe it’s the nook. Maybe it’s the morning light. Maybe it’s just a pavlovian response, but it works. I show up, and the muse shows up, and we have coffee together.

When the moment has passed, which will be the case when I finish writing about it, the world feels ordered and my soul feels soulish and I am centered and ready for whatever is next.

I turn my mind towards Tuesday, the day you will read this. I lift myself out of the “now” to think about you. So here we are, you and me, talking about this moment as if it happened yesterday. As if I’m no longer writing as I’m presently in it. Hi.

Why did I push myself forward to meet you as you’re reading this? Because I want to ask you to begin to recognize those moments in your day when the air feels thin and you feel particularly introspective. They are there. You may have already recognized them. You may now begin to look for them. And when these moments happen, can you find ways to quiet your world to a hum of the refrigerator and chirp of birds outside? Can you find ways to hear what is being spoken to you, and hear what your soul is saying to yourself? Can you find ways to capture the moment on page, on screen, on canvas? And, most importantly, can you repeat this activity on a regular basis?

It’s now 7:30am. It feels like I’ve been sitting with my moment for an hour. Time is a magical space, one to be captured as best we can.