After working eleven hours and planting nearly 100 trees, I know all the Bohemian wants at home is a little quiet, down time. He won’t say that, though.

And then there’s Jeb, (who did not go to the skate park after school today), ready for action. He’s a pinball bouncing round the room, singing silly songs and testing Halloween make-up on various limbs of his jumping body.

I’ve got a list of questions in my head for the Bohemian. Practical matters that need addressing, but I know now’s not the time. I bite my tongue (but not before asking Jeb to mellow out a bit). Grate the cheese instead.

I so admire the Bohemian’s quietude. Steady and calm. Still. Not the kind that’s hiding folds of tension. It is a simple silence, unwinding.

A sharp contrast to my propensity for chatty.

Just like Jeb needs to channel his exuberance into tail taps on the skate ramp, my words are best left to flourish in a forum like this one. Leave the verbiage for the blog.

The thing is, sometimes I go Bohemian. Show up here to my writing hour with all my tools; cup of coffee, incense, quiet house before sunrise. Dip my bucket in the well and it comes up dry.

I remind myself, we’re not on a mechanized production line here. Art isn’t made 24/7 on a conveyor belt with automatic settings. It’s alive like nature. Moving in cycles like the seasons. Waxing and waning like the moon.

Right now I’m living winter on a night with an ebbing moon.

Back in the garden, in the midst of his tree planting project, the quiet Bohemian harvests. His roselle plants bear fruit and he brews them to a tea. Vibrantly red, the fruity elixir speaks volumes.

This morning, my well’s bucket offers a ruby essence. I’ll let this infusion be my mouth piece.