I am five days (!) into our Maine vacation and I am resisting. Today will be our second full day at the summer cottage and I am resisting. I am resisting the uninsulated nature of a place built for three-season use with planks for dividing walls and floors, but no privacy of sound. It is a place perfect for closeness, for coming together, not isolation. The writer, the creator needs space to listen – not to anyone else’s thoughts, music, angst. I have my own squirminess there. The writer, the artist craves a set apart, holy space where the only burden to bear is figuring out how to unleash my untold stories. I am resisting the notion of going to a library or the local store/soda shop to write, because I have come so far for the stillness.
And then…I went up, up, up to the space above all of the day-to-day house activity: the attic. There I found a fan for circulation, a lawn chair for thinking, and in the middle of the room: a table and chair overlooking the woods. I have found a space to claim as my own the for the duration of our stay. And it feels like everything will be okay now with this safe place to be vulnerable.