Writers write to help others, but before we can help others we need to help ourselves. Writers instinctively know this, but we're afraid of the silence. We want to perform and be heard. Intrinsically, we fight this. We love to grow and shape shift and listen to our own muse in the space we call writing, but there are times when the muse is silent. And the silence, deafening, disheartening. Listening to the song, the cackle of a hen, the lilt of a cardinal, I'm reminded that although I may at times be in silence, I am still growing, shape-shifting. The world is a cacophony of music and every once in a while I'm reminded to listen.