by Madeleine Kando
For a while now, my Muse has been on strike, stubbornly refusing to do her job of inspiring me to write. I go through the motions, poking my brain, trying to stimulate the writing reflex, zilch, nada.
I am sitting at my desk, frustrated, watching the birds go about their much more sensible business of waiting their turn around the birdfeeder, the squirrels madly chasing each other in the grass, their tails jerkily going up and down, trying to keep up with their owners’ frenzied activity.
The alarm on my electronic calendar rudely jars me out of my reverie, reminding me that National Grid is coming by to change our gas meter. I have five minutes to comb my hair, wipe the boogers out of my eyes and put some clothes on. Whoever shows up at this ungodly hour will have to suffer the consequences of morning breath and body odor.
I am in the kitchen making coffee, looking at the clock to see if I have time to go out and check on my newly planted seedlings. I feel a slight irritation brewing as I stir my coffee. My precious morning ritual of stepping into the dew covered garden in my p.j.’s to inspect the new growth has been disrupted. Read more...




