It is Saturday noon. I am at my place on the deck in my side yard. It is getting very warm. The shade of the umbrella over the table where I sit keeps it a bit cooler, but it is only going to grow hotter as the sun leisurely strolls across the sky. I am lacking imagination right now. Or perhaps I am just weary. Not really sure. I got up and started the laundry, watered, had breakfast, etc. Decided that waiting to walk the dogs in the cool of the evening was the prudent thing to do. And so here I am, sitting at the keyboard, waiting for lightning to strike. But there are no clouds, not even a chance of rain. No thunder either. We continue in a draught here in Southern California. Rain is not on the agenda again today.
When I was growing up in Michigan I remember we would experience something called "heat lightning." It is a flash or flashes of light seen near the horizon, especially on warm evenings, believed to be the reflection of distant lightning on high clouds. Or so the old wives' tale goes. It really is just lightning from a distant storm, a storm so far away the thunder is not heard and no rain shared. So I guess so much for the prospect of even heat lightning igniting any creativity at the moment.
Yet I did sit down. I did do my morning pages. I did open the blog and begin to write. So something did move through me onto this the latest entry in my blog. See? The muse moves in mysterious ways. Even when you don't think you are able to squeeze even a drop of inspiration out of your sorely weathered soul, it moves on seemingly without you, as if to say, "Get out of my way, I've something to say." Ah, muse, you are so clever and so illusive. I'm so glad you show up when I least expect you.
When I was growing up in Michigan I remember we would experience something called "heat lightning." It is a flash or flashes of light seen near the horizon, especially on warm evenings, believed to be the reflection of distant lightning on high clouds. Or so the old wives' tale goes. It really is just lightning from a distant storm, a storm so far away the thunder is not heard and no rain shared. So I guess so much for the prospect of even heat lightning igniting any creativity at the moment.
Yet I did sit down. I did do my morning pages. I did open the blog and begin to write. So something did move through me onto this the latest entry in my blog. See? The muse moves in mysterious ways. Even when you don't think you are able to squeeze even a drop of inspiration out of your sorely weathered soul, it moves on seemingly without you, as if to say, "Get out of my way, I've something to say." Ah, muse, you are so clever and so illusive. I'm so glad you show up when I least expect you.
