Overcast, gray skies. Cool and crisp, wind blowing through the trees.

Fall is letting us know, it’s not just coming, but has arrived.

Prior to sitting down, to getting ready to write, I heard so many ideas in my head.

They strike me at the oddest times, where it seems and feels that my life has become one long, typed out written chapter.

Such as this morning at the Chiro. No, that’s not a Mexican restaurant. That’s the Chiropractor.

I could hear these perfectly formed words and sentences, flowing effortlessly. Capturing something so simple as sitting in a waiting room, Christian Rock music in the background, which I never listen to. I’m not saying I’m against Christian Rock. It’s more that I find it amusing, yet another thing that is able to divide us, rather than bring us together.

The hum of the oxygen machine next to me, hooked up to a rather worn looking old face. The lines and the wrinkles telling me so much about this stranger’s life.

And then I was off, thinking of an entirely different story about her. Why she was there. What had brought her here, to this room, sitting out of all people, right next to me?

Isn’t that completely amazing?

That of all the places, posssiblities, that all of us find ourselves somehow next to someone.

Be it in line at the store, shopping, at a bookstore, on an airplane. I think of all the millions of things that had to go just right in order for all of us to be brought together and that out of all the places in the entire Universe … here we are.

Together.

I’m at the studio right now. This is what I’ve been wanting. A place all my own, where I can go and just be … my creative space.

The peace. The sound of branches hitting up against the side of the windows.

There is a chill in here and I am cold. I like it. There’s something even more thrilling in that for me. Maybe because I identify with the great writers of the past. Not that I’m saying I belong anywhere near in the same category as them … more like I enjoy imaging they, too, were inspired by such dismal days.

I picture a Thoreau, off with pad and paper, some shack in the woods. Yeah. This is one far cry from a shack in the woods. I can hear the cars passing by on Main Street and in the back alley way.

Still, I can dream of Walden Pond.

I’m not sure why it’s so hard to get these words out at times. That I hear them, flowing so smoothly, ideas bombarding me and then it comes time to write and … and this.

It’s not that I struggle to write. I can, anyone can, write about anything. At anytime.

I can tell you how funny Shags looks as he drinks out of the bird bath, and how much the site of him doing so makes me laugh.

I can tell you how nice the grass felt today, and that I can’t remember the last time I took the time to sit in the yard. Buddha in front of me.

That’s right, you can come see the Buddha himself, right in my back yard.

It’s evidently the place for enlightenment.