There is a time between sleep and conversation when it is me with my pen. My pen and I connect to communicate with my inner mind. The silence that fills the spaces between my pen’s swooshing on the page is low-key and high-yield. My journal gets to see it all. The ideas of yesterday, now, and tomorrow converge to make connections I never seem to make on my own.

Journaling is magical.

There is no reason why writing one’s thoughts should be awe-inspiring. It should be rote and obvious.

You’re writing what you know.

Things you already know.

Where’s the big “a-ha” in noting what you know?

But then the magic comes in and your spirit guides you to an understanding that you never gave yourself permission to have within the normal routines of the day. Answers appear that previously eluded you while fretting over dirty dishes. Solutions bubble up now instead of when you were talking to your oldest friend. And best of all, connections and understanding draw a map of your reality so you can suddenly see worlds that you never thought existed.

I rock in my chair. My wood and leather rocking chair. My feet are crossed on the etched face of a toucan. The bird is centered on the stretched ottoman leather that reminds me in carved letters: Costa Rica, that an earlier understanding has led me to this moment. A magical morning many months ago brought me to the mountains, beside a lake, sprinkled with real toucans. I’m living in Central America because I read a powerful book and then wrote about the visions that consumed me during the last moments of 2017.

Not exaggerating; I saw myself and my family living in a humid, green land where paper curls and gets heavy with the leftover water from rainforests. I didn’t understand how it would happen, but with 3 minutes before the midnight countdown in NYC, I knew I was stepping towards something new, big, and scary.

It was impossible to truly celebrate. I was still stunned. I hugged and kissed and went to bed.

I couldn’t speak the words until I wrote the words.

And then the morning came again.

I left sleep and met my pen and I spilled the beans… to myself.

Premonitions became real and I saw my courage come to life on the page.

I asked my husband to go on a walk. I told him about my vision. He said it sounded great. Now I start my day writing in a land far away. A place that summoned me.

I don’t totally understand why we are here, but I’ll keep writing until I do.