Sometimes after my family is asleep, I sit on the floor in my kitchen with only a small light above the oven to write by. I brew a cup of tea and set it beside me and uncap my pen and write. I think in ink, it's the best way for me to get at my truest thoughts and that's where the insights hide.
Sometimes the rain pours down outside the back door and I can hear the music that falls in sheets.
When I really have things to say, or I know I need to process or heal or grieve or be completely without distraction, this is my little ritual. Without distractions, I can write 3-5 pages before I get so uncomfortable I can't take it anymore. There's just enough light that I'm not tempted to do something else; the range light over my stove is like a spotlight reminding me of where I am to be and what I am to be doing.
It's in these late-night, dimly-lit moments that the answers come. Sometimes no answers, just peace. Sometimes no peace, but relief.