My fingers sit balanced on the home row of keys, hoping for inspiration while I stare at the blank page.  I haven’t written for two weeks; I feel like I am stumbling around inside of my head.  Too many deadlines, too many commitments which generally is followed by a severe attack of staring off into space thinking about all that should be done and done well.  Some days I don’t feel like a writer of any sort; plodding through page after page of research, dissecting journals for evidence to add to papers, or trying to decipher a 3rd grader’s sentences.  In the early mornings, long before the sun has risen, the cat sits as sentinel on my chest, staring intently at my sleeping face for signs that I might just have heard the alarm clock.  He has needs at that early hour of the morning and is not complacent until he sees an eyelid flutter, a change in my breathing pattern, or in extreme circumstances, react to the gentle pat, pat, pat to my cheek with his paw.  I trudge out to the kitchen, popping open a can of cat food while the Keurig fills my mug. Retreating back to the warmth of bed, I sit in the dark sipping dark roast, and thoughts flow effortlessly and sometimes randomly from my mind to a keyboard.  It is always interesting to look back, a few weeks or months later and reread what I wrote. Quite often it is my way of processing my thoughts as clarity has always come to me from the home row of keys.  Without this ability to express myself, to untangle my own thought processes, create characters who breathe life onto the page, to tell my story I truly think I would be lost.