When I was in sixth grade, I read more than 200 books and saw my first lunar eclipse. I remember it from penumbra to penumbra, not just the way it looked, so three-dimensional and amber, bulging out of the night sky, but the way I felt when I saw it. I remember knowing I needed to capture that moment somehow, that it was too beautiful to let pass without some kind of memorial. I didn't have a camera, so I sketched it (badly) in pencil on notebook paper. I wanted to never forget.

There have been times when I've felt so inspired to write that I almost couldn't do anything else, and there are times when I've felt I had no words in me. During the wordless times, I turn back to my first lunar eclipse and remember the way it looked. And the way I felt. And then I build on that memory. I remember where I sat that night and sketched at the sky. I remember the field in Texas behind my house, filled with tiny flowers stretching out endlessly. I remember the thunderstorms and honeysuckle and prickly pear. I remember that the world felt unexplored.

This year has been busy in a good way. I've scrambled from event to event. I've accomplished a lot, but stared blankly at my computer screen, notepads and Delta drink napkins. Where there would have been words, there is a flicker, a line, a smear of wine. But tonight I am remembering that field in Texas. I'm going back to the eclipse.