If you come here often, you’ve noticed that lately I’ve been existing on the non-posting side of life.
If you don’t come here often, you haven’t noticed a thing.
To which I say:
“Good for you for having a life!”
And:
“I wish I could say the same.” (No exclamation point.)
Lately, everything in my life has been revolving around work – kind of like that old Dunkin Donuts commercial where the donut maker runs into himself leaving work as he’s coming in for his morning donut-making shift.
And while half of me is proud of the accomplishments, the other half is feeling the withdrawal symptoms that can only come from not writing for me.
A strange thing happens when I avoid the writer within. The hamster continues to run circles on the treadmill of my mind, waking me up at night, tapping me on the shoulder with ice berg-cicles that are the size of great openings for a story or blog post, but everything gets ignored.
The result? I end up feeling how I imagine impotent men must feel when they become, well, impotent.
So to get away from the anchors of responsibility (also known as laundry, house work and Spider Solitaire), Greg and I decided to take a break from reality this weekend to camp out on our little piece of paradise: a 50 acre, neglected and run down farm that we bought last summer and that we love with as much heart and soul as though we had conceived and given birth to it ourselves.
The quiet. The stillness. The peace of mind.
And who needs the comforts of home when I practically have a spa?
This is truly my element.
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