On Tuesday, I was talking with a dear friend about all the good things: lighting up, and zooming in, and playing in the deep and in the shallow, and surrender.

About cyclical nature and creativity and commitment and devotion.

About how in the artist’s life, sometimes it’s the making itself that is needed. Sometimes it’s the release. Sometimes it’s the recognition and the compensation. Sometimes it’s the anonymity. Sometimes it’s the discovery. Sometimes it’s the quiet. Sometimes it’s being the beacon where others can safely come and create too.

About how those needs can shift, and what it feels like when they do. She might see the journey more as a winding path. I definitely see the journey more as a Slinky: winding upon itself in varying degrees of expansion and contraction.

We talked about how exciting it is, not to come across a like-minded soul, but to come across a lit-up soul. And how very, very exciting it is to watch the lighting up happen mid-conversation or mid-making. The facial expression of aha bliss. You know the one?

And then i hung up and made dinner and went to bed.

On Wednesday, I went about my day. I worked. I bought groceries. I connected with my family. They went to bed.

I finally scribbled out a zine that had been in my head for a couple months. I put it down.

And two lights turned themselves on.

The rattan lamp in the living room corner, while i was sitting on the couch.

And when i walked upstairs, under the door escaped the glow of my bedside lamp. I asked my spouse this morning.

“Did you turn it on?”

“No, it turned on by itself. I left it there to find you.”