There. Unpacked. Now it is official. My vacation is over. Ugh. It took me 4 days to finally empty my suitcase. It was an admission of an ending. Not unpacking allowed the memory to linger somehow. It is always such a mental adjustment coming back from holidays, particularly one that really takes you away from the norm. The kind that makes you really question your present existence. City life vs country life. Cold climates vs warm ones. Simple vs complicated. Priorities. Perspectives. The re-examining of one's life choices. Holidays can really push the envelope for me.
There was a cottage perched on a big rock slab (see below) on the shore of Mabel Lake that we boated past every day. It was very simple, white siding, a large rectangular deck, a sloped roof, nothing exciting from an architectural perspective, but it stood there calling my name day after day. It was all alone, nestled amongst a few trees, the location being the most appealing thing about it really. I could see myself sitting there, at a table near the window, looking out at the lake and mountains, writing, writing and writing. It fit this vision I have had for so long now.
My life would be simple, basic, quiet, uncomplicated. I used to wonder if I would go stir crazy living like that. Now I don't wonder that so much. I would need a few things. I am too used to having contact with the world now - so I would need Internet access, a phone and a car. There is no cell phone service there, so I might need to do without that. When I talk to people about it, they look at me and think I have lost my mind. They probably think I just want to take a break. Maybe they are right. Maybe that is all I need. But more and more, when I examine and re-examine, I feel more and more sure that it is what I want.
Being back here in the city just further emphasizes my desire. The noise, the traffic, the constant "doing". A sabbatical. I think that's what most people call it. Those fortunate enough to take a year away from their regular lives and go off and write their novels or their thesis, or compose music, or paint or sculpt or indulge in some form of creative expression. A whole year to just vomit it out. That's what I need. And that is what it feels like. Like I am about to vomit it all out. Like some ancient, lurking, primitive word vomit that is ready to erupt like a volcano if I could only find the time and space to let it out. Words pouring out of my mind like hot lava covering the past forever and creating an entire new path.
Re-inventing moi. Phase 2.
Writer's retreat of choice