As I write this I’m sitting at a picnic table under a tin roof, it’s June but the rain is pouring on the tiny farm I’m spending my weekend at. The air smells like wood smoke and bacon and it’s so quiet except for the white noise of the rain flooding the field beyond the farm.
It’s stunning here, so green and peaceful. And lucky me that my only task for this time away is to write. I’ve been slacking lately when it comes to giving myself time to write, letting life become too hectic and only giving myself time for the scheduled work rather than trying to grow and expand with this thing that I love to do.
I’ve felt a bit unsure of my path lately, what to do and where I’m going. Too busy to take inventory of all that I’ve done and all that I want to do. I’m a driven person, I thrive on goals, but sometimes I’m so focused on meeting my self-made deadlines that I forget to enjoy the life I’ve built.
But right now it’s quiet and I’m listening to my own breathing as I watch fog cover the hills around me. I’m sitting protected on my little bench under this roof in a place that gives off the smell of wet pine. I am happy here, I’m writing poems for pleasure and for projects. I’m filling up a notebook with quotes and letters and I feel accomplishment as the number of scribbled upon pages grow.
I think it’s hard to stop and think on our lives as we are trying so desperately to live them to the fullest. We are traveling and learning and attempting to grow into those people we would love to be. But as we run around checking off items on mental lists, how often are we pausing to write about traffic patterns or subway train rides or even the sound of rain falling on a roof.
My realization out here is that I want to spend time listening for bird songs, staring at the paths of slugs and feeling rain on my fingers. I want to take time for writing and see it as something without a deadline, a continual project with no end in site.
Rain drenched and happy,