On Writing

Two days in, and I've begun losing track of time. A jigsaw puzzle appears in one end of the little cabin, the mint green typewriter is sprawled on a dining table. I spend the day clearing the upstairs of dead flies, not particularly inspiring nor, it turns out, gratifying, but the coating of lemon-scented floor cleaner lets you sink one step deeper into a house that is as much of a home as you have, right now. You begin to learn the schedule of the deer, as you lose track of your own. Surely there are things you ought to be doing. 

Your desire to run off into the woods
and not know when you'd return to civilization
is stronger than ever. 

I read three books a day now, lie in the tall grass staring up at blue skies, rediscover old stories I never finished telling, Stephen King says you should spend 4-6 hours a day reading and writing, and I wonder if he remembers what it was like not to have money for rent. I stare at October, think maybe I buy myself another month. 

Think maybe I'm trying to buy myself a whole other life.

Crane Wife

When I return to the little cabin in the afternoon, the sandhill cranes are bobbing up and down in the meadow, concealing their young, their motives. The soles of my feet are black from walking around the cabin, but my steps are light, the steps of a woman no longer carrying the weight of the world, or just her own expectations of it. I wade through waist-high grass to reach the horses, as they come calling when I open the back door. 

The women in town told me all the places I had to visit downtown, the little shops for trinkets, the best deli in the valley. I smiled and nodded, fully aware that I'd not visit one of them. As soon as I could, I left town. I want the cacophony of avenue B, otherwise, give me the blissful silence of a land untamed, give me waist-high grass and sandhill cranes, give me timeless time and back porches made for reading, give me bourbon the kind that comes in a water glass without ice only because you had none. Give me dirty feet and pristine sleeps, there's a gate to the horse paddock that lets you walk right to the waters edge, there's ten acres of grass at the bottom of these log steps, I have lost track of time and that is
exactly
what I was meant to.

Montaña

The cabin and I come to each other in patient reverence. The creaking sounds from upstairs reveal themselves to be birds, happily hopping around in the morning sunlight as it crests the mountains behind us. Possibly raccoons. The dogs in the horse paddock turn out to bark at everything, not just me. Each window waits for its turn to introduce its uniquely breathtaking view. I track time only in recording when sunlight creeps past the tops of the pine trees, when it reaches the couch with the moose and fish prints, so perfect for a morning read, when it reaches the back porch, so perfect for drinking bourbon but also everything else. In every other way, time proves to be irrelevant. 

The tick checks come and go, at will. 

It’s a fragile moment, the beginning of an endeavor. You have all of the possibility and none of the wherewithal, all of the optimism but none of the urgency to see it through. The lack of urgency is crucial: you are not here for an end goal, but for the chance to ride a wave to any of its possible conclusions. To ride a hundred waves, wherever they lead, to relish the quiet moment in the lineup, where all you have to do is stare out at the sea and wait to see what the sea will hand you as bait. 

You consider taking up fly-fishing. 

Rumor has it the creek across the field is brimming with trout. 

Cherry Lane

The road off the highway is so small that you miss it the first time, have to circle back around and drive 40 miles an hour to get it right. Shuffle down a wobbly gravel road that only lets you see five feet ahead between the pines. What supposedly used to be a lawn is now a bucolic field of knee-high grass and clover. You wedge your car within the sea of green, drag what remains of your possessions to the unassuming log cabin, unearth a key from its hiding place: here is home for the foreseeable future, because you have no other to claim as yours. 

On the way up, past the winding mountain pass in a little town that tried to entice visitors with its historic downtown, I bought a few vital supplies: water, watermelon, wine. When the cashier asked how my day was going so far I didn’t know how to begin to tell her. Didn’t know how to explain that everything was just as it should be, that everything was nothing but bliss. 

Sit on the back porch with a tumbler of cheap Malbec, watch two horses peacefully pass by with nothing on their agenda but grazing. The sun beams bright above the forest-jagged mountain ridge, a cool breeze sifts through the valley and out the other side. 

Just as it should be, 

as it were. 

A softer landing

After you arrive in the desert, your mind lies silent. A home office appears, you resent it but resign yourself to its four corners. Perhaps it is a break, a chance to do your laundry, repack the station wagon, perhaps it is nothing but a blessing. You sleep a heavy sleep, eat good food, move your limbs as though all of this was normal, you have not yet landed in the new, strange reality you've created for yourself. In the back of your mind, poetry begins to stretch its limbs toward the sunlight, a soft curiosity settles in your spine. Maybe, maybe there is something out there to be found. 

You pack your bags again.
Go back out there into it.

Springs

Colorado is an endless plain, slight tumbles of grasslands full of flowers but endless horizon, until you turn a corner find yourself right at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Climb ten thousand feet into the air, lose your breath, lose your cool, America has changed itself before your eyes again, you are born anew. 

Stop in the little mountain town and find a familiar face, you find her everywhere, and this is the gift. Soak in hot springs, revel in a moment out of the ordinary, try to keep up with the altitude, the dry air, let it remind yourself to you. A young man looks your way enough times at the bar that you know what he is asking, but this is not the time for it. Come back in autumn. 

Go to sleep under a thousand western stars. Tomorrow you cross another border, and make your way home.

Cave

Strange dreams follow you into the Midwest morning, a quiet motel parking lot watching over your deepest sleeps. Over scrambled eggs and midgrade coffee in the lobby, you try to make sense of where you are, but you are too content to worry. A penny appears on the muted carpet as you make your way back upstairs. Because of course it does. You consider DSM diagnoses and wonder if this is what mania is, a conviction that the Universe has turned its smiling face upon you, that now is your time again. 

The schedule says mornings are for work, but all you want to do is write, now. All you want is the road, and music, and billowing clouds across the Kansas plains, all you want is the zen of an open horizon, you fought so hard to get here, you do not want to lose a minute of it to the real world. 

Remind yourself that this is the real world. 

Just because it feels too good to be true
doesn't mean you can't still make it yours.