My new apartment is good fun. I sat at my desk last night and listened to rhythm of music below (I’m living above a bar/restaurant and the owners enjoy supporting the local music scene). Less than ten words came out on the paper I’d been scribbling on. Writers block? Distracted? It really doesn’t matter. I’ve learned if the words are a struggle to come up with, it is best to wait on the muse.

The time came this morning after sleeping in, jogging, hitting the thrift stores (always relaxes me and I’m not certain why), and wandering aimlessly. I rolled my Schwinn Beach Cruiser backwards down the stairs and skidded across the parking area, down an alley and out onto Market Street. The traffic was mild and at a corner stop as I waited on cross traffic a truck driver attempted to wave me through the intersection. I waved him by back. He leaned out his window as he passed saying, “Well, I tried.” I nodded with a smile and cruised on towards Hawkins Preserve.

After I park my bike, I hike down the uneven terrain of mostly slick rock with islands of cryptogrammic soil to the edge of McElmo Creek Canyon. Mesa Verde stretches across the south like some snow covered snake which secretly holds ancient Puebloans deep inside its creases and folds: a python of history recently infested by pavement and park rangers.

Ute Mountain is to my right and does in silhouette resemble some sleeping giant of an Indian chief. He still keeps his blanket of snow tucked around his neck and across his belly. Locals know not to plant until the Ute takes off his blanket. It’ll be another week or two.

I eat my simple lunch- an orange and a paper bag full of cashews mixed with cinnamon coated almonds. It mixes well with the feather of cool wind curling over my shoulders.  I enjoy the silent connect to nature. The juniper and scrub oak make good company.

Sometimes I forget how easy it is to recharge my spirit. A simple and time in nature does the trick. How lucky to be me.

There was time when I could not stop writing. I just couldn’t. I would try to stop coming up with stories and story ideas, but they just seemed to pop into my head and spin around and around until I did something about it. Maybe the writing was a way of purging my system- body, mind and soul. Maybe it was a skill seeded in a childhood where the pain of life without love was replaced with escapes of the extreme. Maybe, just maybe, it was the desire to show my love to others by entertaining. Maybe I am trying my best to simply be heard.

More recently life has overwhelmed me. It is almost as though my creativity has had a large rock tied to it and it is sinking deep under the waters. I can make a gurgle or a bubble and no one cares but me. It is a lonely place. A place where I wish I didn't find myself.

Some people are so unkind and others are truly angels. One up lifts and the other makes you sink. I’m for whatever makes you laugh. I’m for whatever makes you sigh and thank God you’re alive. I’m for the good and the fun and the joy and love one finds in creating.

My first published book, Grandpa and the Christmas Crib, was about love being the support of creativity. I know I feel best when I’m creative and it seems others feel the same. Music, dance, writing, singing, painting, sculpting, hammering, buttoning, riding…whatever the form of creativity, make it happen. Hey, we’re all here to live full throttle. Make it so, my friend, make it so!

On the days when I can't get any words down...I think...I dream...I imagine. I float off to some cosmic jungle and fuzzy visions of swimming with a lovely off some rocky coast.

I need these visions...these escapes...these reasons for living.

Imagination is the Lincoln Logs of the spirit. Shed off the dark trappings and drift in the loving light--a power so fantastic we cannot forget. This is us. As it should be.

On the days when I can't get words down...