I came to Maine thinking I’d write everyday.  I imagined quiet early mornings, infinite time, creativity pouring out of my fingertips.

We leave tomorrow, and what can I tell you?

The mornings have been quiet, though many I’ve spent with an early-rising one-year-old.

Time, as always, is infinite, though our days may fill up and trick us into thinking it is not.

And creativity?  My fingertips buzz, my chest wells, my mind swirls, and words still come slowly.  I remember that half of the creative process is staring into space.  A wooded lake, trees reflecting in the water, white pines rising on the shore, and in the foreground a baby crawling determinedly in circles: this is the scene filling my eyes as I stare.

And this is what I’ve learned, again: mornings are quiet, time is infinite, and creativity is within me.  It’s up to me to wake up, to be present, to pick up the pen and pour words onto the page.


this way: cairn along a Maine trail