Sitting On The Wrong Darn Train

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The pristine afternoon sunlight on my back porch invites me to sit. It is the kind of light that illuminates a golden green sheen through the trees, settling over dragonfly wings hovering amongst the nearby flower bushes.

Jungle birds are chirping, or caw-cawing, depending on the species. If I listen even closer, I can hear the ocean, swaying and tipping into the shore not too far away.

I sit here in the tranquility of the early evening, seeking inspiration to write.

I’m also trying to convince my still-not-settled kitty that the porch is a peaceful and safe place for her to be.

Neither is going well.

Tino creeps out once a day, looks cautiously around our new multi-windowed, single-story home, assesses her exposure, then slinks back to her self-made cave in the safety of my closet.

I am stumbling through past half-drafts, fearing I have writer’s block. I also have to write a talk I plan to give at the end of the month, and I keep changing my mind about what to say.

It’s been an agonizing series of false starts for both of us.

If this were the olden days, there would be heaps of wadded-up papers on the floor…