Early this morning, the novel-writing was not going well. After deciding I didn't like my opening paragraph, I fiddled with a new one for over an hour--and still didn't like it.
I put the teakettle on, grabbed my camera just in case, and stepped out into the wet back garden to clear my head.
I thought about Julie Andrews and her "Raindrops on roses"...and I hummed a little.
I paused at these beaten-down roses and this small, deformed Gerbera daisy and reflected that even imperfect things in the garden
--and in life--can be beautiful.
I wondered what kind of spider would be coming to check this wet web for bugs.
I wondered why, out of the whole packet of mixed-color morning glory seeds, all I'm seeing is white blossoms. What happened to the jazzy pinks and cobalt blues? Are they planning to make a fashionably late appearance? (You can't even see the morning glories in this photo, can you? That's the problem.)
I heard a fly buzz and wondered why that always sounds like people conversing quietly behind a closed door. And why, even when I know it's just a fly buzzing, I always hold my breath and try to eavesdrop.
Then my teakettle whistled and I came back inside. During the five minutes it took to steep my pot of Earl Gray, I realized what was wrong with my opening paragraph and fixed it.
It's good now, thanks to one very brief stroll in the garden.