At 5 a.m., there are no leaf blowers revved up in the neighborhood or motorcycles storming up the hill outside our house.  Even the leaves are still without the squirrels shuffling through them emulating the sounds of big game creeping up behind me.  It’s dark and foggy with streetlights showing clouds of moisture at ground level.  Before sunrise may be the place where I can best focus on writing. 

This is my son Will’s senior year in high school, so we are marching through the corridor where so many others have forged through before us: college application season.  For two months, the word “essay” has loomed dark and large.  Following the school’s college counselor’s advice, last week Will applied “early action” to the colleges that have that optional deadline.  The counselor’s strategy is for students to apply early and find out in December if they’re accepted anywhere.  If they are, that gives them a bit of confidence to forge on with the other schools that have January 1st regular decision deadlines—unless students decide that one of the school’s that accepts them early is where they want to go.  Now, come December, with the Common App and the essay completed, applying will be easier.  Except for those occasional schools that require a supplemental essay or two.  Or six.  It’s draining to think about someone else’s essay deadline, so much so that the keenness for my own faltered.  And the word “essay” itself lost its artful meaning when it time-traveled back to high school, away from the confines of writing as a passion. 

So at 5 a.m., I’m looking for the place to write and for the passion to reignite.  And while the fingers didn’t meet the keyboard over the last several weeks, ideas sputtered about at various intersections throughout the days and weeks. I’m going back over a list that I muddled together.  It’s not complete as I do not always have a pen and paper to my right at these intersections where inspiration hits. And, given my undeniable ability to stay in the present, the glowing ember may burn out before I can record it.  A few months ago, I was having lunch with a friend who had been on her fair share of meds that affected her memory.  I related to how she was feeling as chemo cobwebs still cloud my mind.  We were talking about mindfulness.  I said that I should feel at ease with mindfulness because I can’t remember things that have already happened nor things that I need to do in the future, so I’m left squarely in the present.

I’ve scanned through these jotted, fragmented ideas and future essay titles.  Few make sense.  It’s as if I wrote them in code so no one could steal the ideas.  I thought there would be more inspiration there; rather, I pick up on two themes of bright light and unending noise.  I read through the notes as a whole and think perhaps they are pointing to a larger overarching theme—of seeking peace and calm.  I’ll keep poking through this double-sided page of thoughts and maybe next time around, there will be clarification.  For now, I have the somewhat nauseating feeling I get when I’m looking for that incredibly special gift I purchased two months early but now cannot find, for it’s hidden in a safe spot.