Like so many things, it comes when I have given in, given up the search, released the desire, turned my attention elsewhere. It comes in crumpled-up moments – in splintered, fickle doses.
It’s as if my expectation of it is the very thing that prevents it. I might be on the town running errands, ticking them off the list one by one, when something else happens, something unplanned, something unscheduled, a canceled appointment that cracks open a half-hour like a chest of impossible jewels.
This is how it comes to me. Not on my knees begging, no, but rather when I have laid down the obsession gently on the ground and carried on.
Yet even then, stillness (like an alley cat or a bird or a whale or a poem or sun on a cloudy day) might show itself, or it might not.
C.M. Rivers 