When the muse strikes

I've been spending more time in the hospital with my mom than writing. But today, while waiting for my husband to stumble out of some pretty nasty oral surgery, I was overcome by the feeling that I would explode if I didn't put pen to paper - immediately.

I have a journal that always sits on my dresser awaiting some revelation. The journal comes with me on trips and sometimes when I know I will have a long wait. You never know when an idea will pop into your head and you best be ready before it leaves your post-menopause, foggy brain.

Today was one of those days. The past week has been emotional and exhausting. Mom is back in the hospital and I've been doing a lot of waiting, hand holding, and broad-shoulder work. They're my parents and I love them so it is my honor and privilege to walk with them during times of crisis.

I brought my journal with me the first full day my mom was in the hospital and we awaited a procedure for her. But the muse did not strike. I think if it had, I would have hit it back. "No time! No energy! Come back another day!", I would have told it.

It takes a while for me to process an emotional event. I know there is always a lesson in there somewhere. It often comes to me in the middle of the night when I'm too tired to get out of bed and shuffle over to my journal. And so, the thought will often disappear with the morning light.

Magazines and a book were to be my distractions today as I awaited a peaceful resolution to Ron's gum warfare. I brought a coffee with me and finished that. Poked through the horrible, uninspiring magazines in the office waiting room and decided that a woman's magazine called "More" would be More useful as kindling.

Then, it hit. That muse! And it would not go away. I looked at the magazine and book I brought to see if there was enough blank space on the pages for me to scribble my ideas. Nothing.

I went to the service desk and, with my eyes certainly darting back and forth, asked breathlessly for a pad of paper. The clerk held up a medium-sized note pad with the doctor's name on the top and asked, "Will this do?"

"Yes. Yes. Thanks." I said as I snatched it out of her hand. A wad of gently-used toilet paper would have sufficed at that point. I fumbled for a pen in my purse as I reached my seat. Repeating over and over to myself the words that were streaming through my head at a speed faster than any toboggan I had ridden as a child.

Can't forget a single one. Must write quickly. I scribbled and tore pages away at lightning speed until there was a pile of papers (double-sided) on the table next to me. I somehow remembered to number the pages so that I wouldn't lose the flow.

I feared my pen would run out. Could I go to the service desk again and ask for a pen? Would I be pushing it if I asked to use one of their computers? No time to think about that. Just keep writing.

My husband emerged out of the treatment room and I looked up with glassy eyes. "Oh," I said, "Right on time! It took exactly one and half hours as they predicted!". "Actually, dear," he replied, "I was only in there for an hour."

I looked at my watch for a long time and did the math. Yup. One hour on the nose. Did the muse take away my sense of time while I scribbled madly? Or maybe it just took my sense. Period.

On our way back home, I tried to shake the muse from my brain as I listened to Ron's post-procedure instructions and stuffed his prescriptions in my purse to fill for him after I nudged him onto the sofa to rest. As I prepared to make the drugstore run, I grabbed at some scrap paper I have by the phone and headed back out.

I scribbled as I waited for the 'scripts to be filled and felt the piece had been somewhat fleshed out. At least enough for me to put it to bed and work on later.

Songwriters must feel this way. Do they bring their guitars with them everywhere? Or their music-lined notebooks? Or maybe a small recorder to sing into?

I don't know if their muse is the same as mine. All I know is that I will never be caught again without my journal in my voracious writer's reach.