Fresh white paper is always very appealing. Although it never sparks any creativity within me. It’s been 3 long and boring days now and still I’m stuck for ideas. I often think of little ideas and scribble them down In a little book I have for inspiration but today I have no ideas and the world is both bleak and boring to me. I glare at my pen with anger and annoyance. Why can’t it give me any ideas? Sometimes thoughts suddenly pop into my mind but then they vanish or don’t fit into place with the rest of the contents of my brain and so quickly disappear leaving me blank. I make myself a crumpet and a piping hot cup of coffee and sit in my garden.

I spend a lot of time in my garden contemplating the nature that surrounds me. I love the birds and their sweet melodies and complex tweets and I love the unreliable breeze and the overgrown ivy which has devoured my garden fence. I love everything about this garden, I just wish it would give me some answers.

All I need is a seed to plant in my garden which with a little watering every now and then will grow large and lush and bloom to be the most vibrant and eye-catching flower.

I need to find the seed that will spark a string of words that will fit into a sentence and grow into a paragraph that will then sprout into a chapter and a story.

My story.

2 days later my hand was numb from writing, and writing what I don’t know-all I knew was that I was writing something and my mind was demanding me to write. I wrote for days and days, putting pieces and fragments of ideas and thoughts together and transferring them from my head to the paper. All I can say is that my story incorporated blossoming flowers and thick lush vines and vivid descriptions of picturesque scenery and that the writing made me joyous and content and calm on the inside.

But then one day I put my pen to the paper but the thoughts would not trickle out on to the page. I didn’t know how to start a sentence, nor end one and yet again I was faced with writer’s block.

Once again I toasted a crumpet and smeared it with butter and took long sips of coffee and sat in my garden gazing at the nature I was so lucky to have as the backdrop of my life.

My garden was my guide and it fed me with ideas or rather I helped it to grow and it helped me to find myself. The entanglement of branches on the trees untangled the spiralling thoughts in my brain and the towering gnarled oak tree removed the stress that had been such a burden to me.

I sat in my garden for how many hours I cannot remember, only that the next day I was writing again as if magic and my mind was clear from chaos and fresh with ideas urgent to be released on to the paper.

For once, I was satisfied.