Busy got busy

My journey beyond the cancer seas.

Busy got busy. I saw her go out through the kitchen door to do her many things. I coaxed her with the snow that had landed light and melting in the cold morning. There was just enough magic to capture her, and she turned and left. And as she did I smiled and waved through the kitchen window, pretending to stack the breakfast dishes in an attempt to look as busy as she did out there, in the snow, doing phone things. To be honest she was only really seeing busy, but she could kid herself later that yes, she had been out in the snow. Tick.

One less thing on the to do list. Tick.

Meanwhile, I snuck off upstairs. Into my room and sat listening to the dripping water and watching the cat sleep. I tucked him under my old silk scarf. He complains a little, but really he loves me playing mum on the cold days. There we are, just sitting. The sky is white and more snow is falling, though it looks wet and will probably melt soon. Isn’t it magic though?

I sip the decaf coffee I made, savouring the smell. Hopefully ‘busy’ will be to involved to notice I took it up here into this little den. I feel the warmth of the cup bring in the quiet and carry me someplace peaceful.

Reverie. That’s the word. Contemplation is another. Not words that ‘busy’ understands to well. Its ok, I can be here and understand them for us both. Wow the coffee tastes good. I notice the warmth leaving the cup as I drink the final dregs. On the floor is my art pad, empty, awaiting the robin that has literally flown in to be the next creature I create. It was a month ago I had the moment with that bird. It sat on the branch after dive bombing me and eyed me sharply. I think now I understand. Busy has her time. I also need mine, as does Robin.

And I can feel the tap on my shoulder again. The tug on my sleeve. The whisper in my ear that there is writing to be done. Not the kind that organises lists, or makes flyers or worksheets. Nor the kind that answers social media messages or emails. No, this is writing with the muse beside me. There is no busy here, just flow into the tangle tumble.

So I start. And here I am.

Later I went down to see ‘busy’. She needed calming with a cup of Chamomile tea. She had done so much and yet so little.

She needed me.

The me that had sketched Robin into being. The me that had taken time to write this. Arm in arm we wander back upstairs.

The snow is nearly gone now, but its left its magic.