“Writting a shitty first draft is very much like watching a Polaroid develop. You can’t — and, in fact, you’re not supposed to — know exactly what the picture is going to look like until it has finished developing.”

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

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Savasana

I rest back against the Creator, who is like a soft-armed, firm-backed reading pillow, supporting me with strength and comfort. Christ rests his head on my chest, cheek turned to one side. I rumple his hair, which is brown and thick in the joints of my fingers. The Spirit, our Muse, curves over us, brushing my hair which is inexplicably long-spun of cornsilk, becoming smooth under the stride of her brushing. Her hair is dark, blue-jetted, and twines itself around us all like a Renaissance painting. The hem of her garments (or is it his? or mine?) folds across my bare feet.

The last unnecessary strokes of the brush flick the curled ends of our hair, floating the strands lightly together. Christ yawns, extends one arm, and rotates his wrists, bringing life back to his bones. “What shall we do now?” I say, and after a pause, “Get smoothies?” “Yes! Yes! Let’s go get smoothies!” chorales the Muse, clapping her hands twice, the brush still clasped between them. God moans a little, reluctant to wake, and we all roll gently asunder, scrambling up to the day.