When I can’t find what it is I want to paint

or write or dance or say or plant
I may pick up things at random
and examine them in the light 
I may rehearse the subjects I had bookmarked
or start as many times as I need to
giving full license to what feels right
following behind it as a docile and trusting
toddler, who may suddenly begin to
run or scream, then I follow after the toddler
as a resigned parent,
who thoughtfully picks up discarded clothing and
wonders at what has set the child off 
and tries to share in that feeling.
I do it as often as I remember, 
the shedding of importance 
or agenda or expectation 
and I try to give my attention to what comes, 
to listen to my legs, even if they don’t know where they’re going
listen to my heart, 
even if it says to be silent and keep listening 
or to the paint, 
even if it’s saying be mindless
or reckless or act a fool
I try to stay with it
and give it the benefit of a doubt
cause it likely knows better than me