Protecting my creativity

I carry my creativity as an injured fledgling found at the foot of a tree.  My family is the cat batting at my hands trying to release the baby bird into their possession.

I finally sit at the piano, 36 hours after I promised myself I would be there and the tug of homework help, laundry, missing shoes and snacks is almost too much to bear. 

The busyness of a Sunday afternoon is no time for mum to indulge her passion, to live the life she was born to live. Only after the last child is asleep does peace descend and the work of the soul can begin.  But by bedtime, the soul is tired. The piano remains quiet and the life remains unlived.