Staying in a cabin for a month or so on Lake Quinault with my books, my knitting, lots of wine, paper to write on, and maybe a kitty sounds blissful. Sit on the porch in a rocking chair gazing out at the lake thinking of nothing, for the whole day if I want. Eat dinner at the lodge. Take long succulent baths with lots of candles. Just be silent, and still. Walk in the woods when it's raining, feeling the security of the trees around me, breathing Mother Nature in. Skinny dip under a midnight moon. Read St. Thomas Aquinas and Immanuel Kant, Freud and Poe, Slyvia Plath and Jane Austen. Sit in front of a fire, a real fire, knitting a baby blanket with a kitty in my lap. Wonder through the cemetary thinking up stories for those who lived long ago, trying to find the oldest gravestone. No cell phone, no internet, no cable. But I don't have a month to go away. I can't swim by myself because of the seizures. The baby blanket I'd be knitting for someone else's baby. I don't have a car to get there, and no money to pay for it all. Just a pleasant daydream.
"I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope never to return." ~Frida Kahlo
No comments:
Post a Comment