Long ago (some 40 years ago), a friend gave me a placque or poster (I forget which) that had this on it:
“Writing comes out of life; life must come first. And yet my life does not go well without writing. It is my flywheel, my cloister, my communication with myself and God. It is my eyes to the world, my window for awareness, without which I cannot see anything or walk straight.” — Anne Morrow Lindbergh (1906 – 2001)
I have been thinking a lot about that this morning.
I am , more frequently, , in the middle of the normal sleeping hours (this one being since 2:30 am, now 4 am) finding myself drawn to getting up and making coffee and doing my reading and writing that is “normally” not happening until at least 6:30 -ish. I think the above post contains the clue. I am drawn to this retreat when things get really hard to think about, and which tend to come flooding in when I am momentarily awake to use the bathroom, or to shift my positions in the bed or throw off (or add on) covers that have gotten me too hot (or cold).