It starts when I least expect it, perhaps when I’m out walking, or washing dishes, or watering plants. There’s embryonic longing, a tiny squiggle in my stomach. I picture it like the determined motion of bacteria under a microscope. What is that? I think. Something I ate? There’s a feeling of leavening, of rising and expanding. It begins in the solar plexus and blends outward like osmosis, until my whole body feels light and yet full.
I remain still and try to name the feeling, so foreign yet familiar. For a while it’s purely physical but finally it permeates my brain and breaches the chasm between subconscious and conscious. Recognition begins: Ah, I know you now. We’ve been here before. And I marvel that this miracle has come again.
There’s no way to name it except through cliche: The well is refilling. My insides will expand beyond my body’s capacity, and soon my shell must split. I don’t fear it, though it won’t be painless, this spilling out. The discomfort is somehow satisfying, and the pleasure, when it comes, is like nothing else.
The urge to write is what keeps me human. My mind begins to spin stories and the words pull me back to the keyboard. Like a metal filing to a magnet, like a swallow to the mission. See? It’s happening already.