My new Scotland-inspired Wellies. Perfect for slogging through mud, feeding chickens and kicking tires.
After ten or twelve incidents, namely getting stopped by the cops while walking, having a twice-delayed plane (first time for a communication equipment malfunction, the second time because the replacement plane got backed up over the… uh… luggage cart), getting a flat tire and various other maladies, I have arrived in the Wilds of Oregon!! (Yes, it must be said aloud like that, with capital letters and exclamation points).
I am here for a month, writing, cooking, walking, mellowing out after too much cityscape and too much time devoted to things other that wellness and words. I’ve forgotten what the sound of nothing is. And what it means to live without having to watch clocks, watch people, watch myself.
Here, it’s just me tap-tapping the keyboard and the dog barking at nothing and the chickens making nesting noises as they gather in for the night to lay eggs. Peace.
I’ll have lots more to say on this soon, I’m sure — it’s the final month of Chapter 37, it will be my 38th birthday in a few weeks, I’ve remembered why there is part of me that wants to leave cities behind forever and return to the green. But for now, I’m going to walk in the woods and see if I can’t scare up a newt or an owl or some hidden part of me that only comes out beneath trees.
Slow and serene, s.
The Little House in the Woods. Actually, it’s quite a big house.
“By reading Huckleberry Finn I felt I was able to justify my act of going into the mountain forest at night and sleeping among the trees with a sense of security which I could never find indoors.” ~Kenzaburo Oe