Once upon a time on a lovely spring day in April, I was walking the dogs down to the river. Tater was pulling forward and Ching Ching trying to claim every bush in his little boy dog manner. The clouds were drifting lazily along the horizon as the sun began to rise. The sky was clearing after the night's rain and it promised to be a beautiful day.
My mind began to wander as it often does on our walks. Thoughts about the meaning of life and what I wanted for breakfast competed in my brain for attention. The crisp air and birds singing in the early morning air inspired hopes of a very productive day of creativity ahead.
Tater stopped to investigate an carelessly tossed piece of trash while Ching impatiently tugged at the leash to continue on to the river. We walked on down the little dirt path to the sandy banks of the trickle of water called the might Santa Ana. Even after an exceptionally rainy winter, there was very little water flowing down from the snow capped San Bernardino's to the Pacific, at least here, in Riverside. The river, it seems, went underground years ago.
Today that is how the flow of my creativity seemed to be: flowing somewhere deep inside not accessible to me. The riverbed, it seems, was dry. In that moment of realization I was alarmed. Would the waters of inspiration ever rise again? Would the flow ever arise from my inner source? My fears again seemed to becoming true. I would never write again. There would be no musings, no thoughts quirky or otherwise. It was the end.
And then I started with once upon a time....
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