Fondly flowing, softly sowing, her words danced across the page like the blue from her eyes reflecting her heart and her soul. Thoughts dropped from her mind to the pen not like heavy weights but like butterflies landing softly one at a time or all at once. They were wild and communicated with a secret language unbeknownst to her. They were under no control of hers. But if she was quiet enough, she could sit in the stillness and watch as they landed. They would drift out of the heavens and dance in front of her before landing on the page. Often memorized by the display, she would reach out to touch them, but they would all flitter off and she would be left sitting alone with a blank page before her.
It took years of reaching out before she realized that she needed to be still. She needed to give up control and allow the butterflies to do what they wished. Only then would the words begin, slowly at first and then in torrents like the migration of the monarchs, thousands of butterflies clinging to every branch and leaf in the forest, they would surround her as they floated from the heavens, and when she awoke from their performance the words would have lined up dutifully on the page.
The magic was not in allowing the words to flow, and watching them appear on the page, but in knowing exactly when it was over and the essay, or story, or observation was complete.