I sit by an open window in the dark with the rain, waiting for a picture of a sound, a spark. But the rain is just a sheet of paper crumbling over and over again, not an ocean tide or a fire crackling in a pit.
Dreams of being late for work, wandering around a foreign town looking for my car, no map. Worrying I’ll have to contact my boss, will miss time at work.
I push myself out of bed and say Write, and between the time I dress and come downstairs, I fumble for a door, throw it open here, and entertain the sound of the rain:
It is the same it’s always been, and always will. It collects by the window there and off each leaf, in the distance. It’s a comforting sound of renewal and cleansing, tells me it’s time to stay inside.
Things become harder than they need to when you let your mind get in the way. That’s why my Yoga teacher has us focus on our breath, and make the sound of it in the back of our throats, to get our brain to listen to that, and stop listening to itself.
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Bill Pearse 
Showering. I’ve been struggling to write a piece, putting it off for days in fact, because I’m overthinking it. But as I stand in the shower, no distractions, just the churrrrr of the water, everything aligns in my head. This happens all the time in the shower. Now if only I could do the actual writing in there.
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I hear that. The damn brain is like an ox.
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Haha! So true.
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I still think that the answer is to drink more coffee.
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Hallelujah. I wish I could, it just makes me spaz out.
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OK, well, back to “the sound of the rain.” There’s always that, for the sound of inspiration! Except for today, when Summer and Autumn were arm-wrestling for dominance, and Summer won.
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Yes, get ready for the sound of the rain. I’m in. I’m a Northwesterner.
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