It’s early Monday morning. I’m sitting here, listening to the thunderstorm move through, the rain pouring down on the plants and round table and plastic chairs on my front deck.

The house is silent except for the steady cadence of the rain — a welcome gift here on a hot August day.

You would think there is a story here somewhere.

Or at least a poem.

It’s funny how the most atmospheric places and times often fail to yield to the force of Creativity. How the perfect setting, emotional state, or piece of music fails to inspire us to our creative heights.

I have often had the perfect surroundings to write on my novel or sketch something in my art book. A beautiful sunset, a country setting. Maybe everyone is gone and I have the house to myself. Maybe a bit of romantic music from the past comes on the radio. Rain and thunderstorms and the quiet of the gray around it.

Perfect settings for writing, painting … for self reflection and relaxing daydreams.

Yet I sit here, doing nothing. Feeling nothing. Except maybe like I want to take a nap or pour another cup of coffee or wonder what I’m going to make for dinner.

It seems my Muse sabotages me at every turn.

I believe that creativity and imagination are like soft electrical currents that are always running in the background. They make us feel good; they give us a sense of self worth, of achievement, and enjoyment. Look at how high you feel when you’re in the groove. On a roll. In the thick of things.

I also believe you can’t just call on the Muse and have her instantly appear.

You can’t make inspiration. You can’t make imagination.

You can encourage it, develop it, explore it. But you can’t make it. It comes at its own time. At its own speed.

I can’t seem to find my muse and her creative spark at the moment. There surely is a reason for that.

Maybe she wants me to just sit and listen to the rain.