Toy Mouse

I sit down to write on a bright autumn day and immediately feel anxious, fearful, and stuck.My teaching has been overwhelming recently, and I’ve been writing in fits and starts, snatching a few minutes here and there.

My head is full of noise—all the things I should be getting done are shouting at me. I want to clear my mind, to find a still place inside. To just write. But my focus is fragmented, my thoughts disorganized.

An angry voice in my head says, I don’t have enough time. I want to curse the fact that business and teaching and errands and everything else come in the way of the thing I cherish most—writing.

I hear a noise and turn to see my little black cat, Pixie, dart into the room in pursuit of a toy mouse. She is wild, hopping and pawing.It’s amazing how much havoc a single cat can create.

My first thought: Another distraction. I am trying to reach my higher power here, but an eight-pound kitty with a fake rodent are blocking my way.

Then I pause for a moment to watch her—to really watch. She is utterly focused on her game. Every muscle, every bit of energy is directed toward that toy. Her instinct to play has come alive. It is natural, effortless, and utterly unconcerned about anything else. 

And that, I realize at once, is what my writing should be. I take it so seriously. I approach it with the ferocity of a fighter, as if it is a battle that might be won or lost. What I should be doing is playing. I should be following my writing the way Pixie is pursuing her mouse—dancing and chasing under tables and beds, down stairs and around corners, wherever it leads. Like her, I should be aware only of the game, and of the sheer joy it brings me.