This morning, I happened to look out my window and see the fleeting silhouette of a hummingbird. It was gone in a split second, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d even seen it.

But I can recall the outline of that small, butterfly-like bird like a snapshot in my mind. Yes, I saw it.

Sometimes, my thoughts are like that hummingbird—or movement in my peripheral vision. Like dreams from the night before fading from my consciousness, I have to write them down when they come to me, or lose them.

I’ve had the experience, over the years, of having insights that seem so profound at the moment, I believed I’d always remember them. But then, they would fade away. It feels like these thoughts, images, and ideas are like brightly colored fish in the ocean of my unconscious. A current will bring one of them up near the surface, where I see it hanging suspended in the dark water. Then, in a little flash of color, it dives so deep again that I can’t recall it.

Then, years later, it resurfaces, and I recognize it. I know the insight is not new, that I’d lost it, and if I want to remember it, I must write it down immediately.

I used to try to capture all of my insights and ideas by carrying a notebook and writing them down whenever I had them. I did nothing with many of them, because there’s an energy that happens when they’re fresh that I need to ride like a wave to be able to stay in it, and write from the point of the thought to its conclusion.

Like this morning. I had no idea what I would write in my blog. I saw the hummingbird, made the association with fleeting thoughts and insights, and knew I better catch the wave while there was still energy behind it, and see where it took me.

I can’t catch them all. But I can pay attention, and choose when to follow a wave of thought made by a bright, little fish—or a hummingbird—and see where it takes me.

Behind all the noise, the world holds its breath, waiting. The space within quietness wants to hold the sound of your voice, the vision of your painting, the words of your story, the song of your spirit.

Silence doesn’t want to be filled, it wants to listen.

Too much noise—sound, thoughts, busy-ness—crowds out insight, and leaves little room for creativity. It becomes hard to take a deep breath, even.

Yet silence can be intimidating, like the stare of a blank page when no ideas come. But if you wait, and still yourself in the center of your own anxiety, what do you experience?

The faint sound of wind chimes moving in a breeze. A sigh. The color of a thought. The texture of a feeling. The gesture of what you long to express, and longs to be expressed by you.

Behind the silence, there is a consciousness that holds us suspended in eternity. It is germinating, appreciating—needing—what you are here to do in your precious life, now.

A sun shines. A moon reflects. A flower blooms. What do you do?

When you feel frazzled, burnt-out, or overwhelmed, stop. Take 20 minutes for yourself, alone, away from the inner and outer noise, and just listen. What do you hear?

What is waiting to be brought into the world, by you?

How will you be different after you express it?

And what else is possible?