I was going to write tonight.

Instead I fell down a nap hole and dreamt of a fox.

I was going to write tonight about how much I hate my face, but instead looked up foxes and symbolism.  And put on a pot of coffee.

I was going to write tonight about how I (could) love my face, but instead pulled out a drawing pad and turned on Netflix (crime, French).

I was going to write tonight about how strange it was finding my house filled with people last weekend working on my passion project and discussing crime and science, but instead pulled out china markers and white acrylic paint.

I was going to write tonight about how the wind storm swept in as spirits started swirling on Sunday evening, but instead made some eggos with fresh strawberries and honey.

I was going to write tonight about coming across a 1940’s fur coat strewn over a park bench by the Hotel Sylvia.  But instead put my drawing board across my lap.

I was going to write tonight about navigating anxiety, but instead tapped into my subconscious.

I was going to write tonight but my hand just drew and drew and drew.

Lore has it that a fox sighting was thought to be a signal from the spirits of the deceased. Fox animal symbolism takes a turn of intelligence in the Celtic realm, as the Celts believed the fox to be a guide, and was honored for its wisdom. The Celts understood the fox knows the woods intimately, and they would rely upon the fox as their guide in the spirit world. [source]