After the birth of my son in 2008 I took a break of sorts from my composing work, but found that (as is often the case for me) periods of intense change produce a desire to mark the moment creatively. Given the sudden retraction of any time to myself, I had to concede certain rituals that I had taken for granted in my prior life: my desk, a piano, quiet mornings with a cup of tea (the list could go on). When the reckoning was complete, I was left with a 50 min subway ride to my job, a pencil and staff paper. This was, for me, a new situation to fret over and reluctantly explore. During these harried and exhausted commutes I wrote the pieces that make up a part of the book of miniatures that I named after the smallest measure of thought I could think of – a notion. In some ways, these aren’t even actual thoughts, just intuitions that feel akin to rough pencil drawings normally cast away as soon as a finished portrait is complete. Yet these same drawings might later be reconsidered by a generous eye as bearing the hardly discernable gesture of a moment lost in a haze.