Catching the magic

At last the sun is shining out of a clear blue sky and instead of the constant sound of the howling wind (yes howling really was the only word to describe it)the only sounds now are from crying seagulls. Snowdrops and miniature daffodils are smiling through the grass outside The Shed and spring really seems to have arrived. Portland has been very lucky, although the Chesil Beach was pounded by huge waves and the road that connects us to the mainland was closed several times our problems have been nothing compaired to those on the Somerset Levels and in the Thames valley. Our garden fencing has been blown down but that can be easily repaired. My only real problem is returning to a regular writing pattern, I've done enough research to get on with the next adventure in the life of the Pullen family. Four years have passed, Ginny and Rick have both left school and Lou is about to be the only one left at home with her father. The whole family are sitting round the breakfast table in Cliff House, I can hear them all talking but this morning I can't sit down with them; I can't catch the words and string them together. To loosen up a pianist plays scales and arpeggios, a dancer works at the barre and in the days when I made pots for a living I would wedge up half a hundred weight of clay before sitting at my wheel and throwing a series of jugs. With a dozen jugs in front of me confidence returned and nothing could stop my inspiration. It always worked but now the slightest thing breaks my train of thought and the magic goes.