Magic and Identity

**Nobody is reading this because I never post. That's okay. I'm mostly writing this as a reminder to myself anyway.

Somehow in the daily list of must-be-dones I get lost. Maybe some folks don't, but I don't think I know any of them.
I've got to pay the bills, educate the boys, stop the boys from quarelling (long on stopping, short on educating today--they have colds), do the laundry, do the taxes, do the bookkeeping, do the dishes, and boy that floor needs mopped. Not to mentioned that box, and that box, and all those other boxes, and I've got to find something to wear and my shoes (also in a box) by Friday because of that dinner (husband's work related).
And the economy is going upside down, and I haven't had enough time for reading, and my Bible got misplaced in this last move and I meant to read every day during Lent but I've only gotten on web twice to do so, so far, and my brother-in-law is pulling the usual money related nonsense and thank God my other brother-in-law has discovered Dave Ramsey so my husband isn't standing alone on the financial end these days.
And so in all this I forget who I am. What I do, what I like. In just trying to do enough. Every now and again I read this website: http://www.sixredheads.com/ and today she posted something that after my brief exchange with Desert Cat really hit me. http://desertcat.blogspot.com/

I haven't touched my 'cello since before Christmas. I just haven't had time . . .

There's a . . . call it an idea, that's been dancing in the back of my head for years, now. It has a name, or nearly a name, something like Meditations on the Dawn of the Resurrection. (That's not quite it, but it's almost there.) I've had the opening line, the first few phrases, in my head and on the tips of my fingers for years. And it tells a story--you can find the story in any of the Gospels.
Today I pulled out the 'cello. I got her tuned up. Baby was napping, older three coughing in front of the TV. (Using the TV to 'drug' sick children into not quarreling.)
And I played those phrases. And it kept coming out. And I played that. And some more. And then I jumped up and dug for staff paper, which I found, and a pencil, which I didn't until I remembered I'm supposed to keep one in my case, where I found a handful. And I played it again and scribbled and played and scribbled. And then Next-Youngest bit Next-Eldest, and they all screamed, and Baby woke up and screamed too. It isn't anything like done. But it's started, and well started. And it's Something, not just pretty music, but Something Important.

It feels like magic in the good fantasy novels ought to feel. And the high, from the playing and the composing, I don't know how else to describe it. It's like performance high only stronger--comes with the munchies too. But if you don't perform, I don't know anything else that feels like this.

So why am I so busy being practical that I forget to do this?