I’ve been engrossed in several projects this week, necessitating much time at the computer, writing and editing and playing with words for others. I found that when I went to write my own, the word well was rather dry.
By mid-morning, the sun was out, the sky was cloudless, and temperatures hovered in the thirties. Since there are always scraps and peelings and coffee grounds to be composted, and my red rubber shoes were poised and ready to go for a romp, off I went, in search of inspiration.
The compost bin isn’t really a bin, though one day it will be. It is, rather, a spot where we put leaves and clippings and table scraps. We turn it and rotate and eventually have some rich organic material to use in the garden beds. It also gets a little help being tilled from the deer. They rummage in it and sleep on it, which compacts it quite nicely.
I checked the bluebird box, which has never had any bluebirds. I never give up hope, however, and I’m banking on this being the year a family finally decides to moves in.
The deer were active, their white flags flipping and flapping as they leaped and ran amok, until my presence was known, when they stopped, dead still, staring at me. I wondered. Were they just playing red light, green light and someone called “red light”?
So it was that the sun shone through the plumes of the grasses and the peak of the arbor and I walked about, clearing my head and looking for inspiration.
Where do you go for inspiration?
How do you clear your head?
Does your word well ever run dry?