I never thought I’d use an online Muse service, but there I was signing up on one, paying for premium features, adding my photo and profile to dozens of other aspiring writers. My writing block was impenetrable, my slump insurmountable, my misery inescapable.

I let my mind wander, and it traveled to a distant parking lot with thousands of parked cars, one of which was mine.  But which one? My car was silver, but there were literally hundreds of silver cars.

In late June, when my stone birdbath developed a
deep crack, I recycled it into a fairy garden.