Away

(A reflection on my recent weekend away)

Lately words have escaped my belabored brain. In rare and brief moments, I have sat down to write, and alas: nothing. Even a teensy little haiku has been too much for my mind to muster…until now.

Put me in a modern bungalow on Inverness Ridge, left to stroll around in my panties with only the birds to see and the wind to whistle, and suddenly, I find my muse. Nestle me in a poppy-orange lounge chair adjacent to a wall of windows with a panoramic view of Tomales Bay, and it turns out I have something to say. Send me on a lush, eight-mile hike to the sea, through ferns, waterfalls, and bronzy meadows, and yes, lines of poetry do begin to occur to me. Nap me. Rest me. Surround me with solitude, and suddenly, I am rich with words.

The thing of it is, friends, I’ve been dried up like a raisin – by none other than the sunshine of life. It’s good stuff (well mostly) but Mama! I’m tired. Always somewhere to go, someone to be, something to do…I have reached a shriveled state. Squeeze a juicy little grape like me hard enough, and the juices run dry. It’s true for all of us. You’ve heard this story before: it’s your story, it’s your neighbor’s story, it’s your mother’s and your father’s story, your sister’s and your brother’s story. We all know the story of burn out. And hopefully, we all know the opera of relief that comes when we leave it all behind for a while – even just for a little while. And if you don’t, allow me to preach it from the Inverness mountaintops: there is value in leaving it all behind. There really and truly is!

How often are we thinking: If I could just get away for a while…And we don’t mean a bubble bath, do we friends? A Calgon break is all fine and good, but we’re talking about away away. We’re talking about the prayer-flag-draped caves of Tibet; we mean the wildflower fields of Australia; the canals of Venice; the castles of England; the au laits in France. We’re dreaming of away, and we’re dreaming big. Sometimes it’s a whimsical, passing thought we have while sipping tea in the backyard; other times, it’s a desperate longing – a need, really – like when we’re wiping down the middle son’s homework after the potty-training son peed on it, with the older son snickering in the background. Oh sometimes, fellow grapes, our dear lives are too much, aren’t they?

Inverness is not Tibet, but far enough away for now. Here, in this California haven of vast sea and meadow, of pine forest and cow-dotted farmland, I am many moons away from my usual life, afloat in a universe of renewal. While at home, my life with three boys provides moments of peace and solitude only found on the potty, here there is nothing to interrupt the forever quiet. Here I watch the hawk swoop and circle over the bay, moment after moment, breath after slow breath, and it is pure holiness. Here, the quiet is so quiet, it makes a peaceful drone, like an angel’s eternal sigh of satisfaction. Yes, here I wipe the counters clean, and lo, their pristine and polished state lingers for hours upon hours. Here, I saunter to the loo, and behold, friends, when I sit on the toilet seat, not a single drop of gone-astray urine awaits my relaxed little buns. No phone rings. Nobody knocks at the door to rouse me half-dressed from this orange chair. Nobody nothing nowhere. And even though it will all be different tomorrow, somehow, this time, here, now, matters.

So when you’re feeling done with your life, find a way to get escape it for a while, says the woman with the sun-kissed cheeks, waltzing with the wind on a stage of lime-green prairie. Says the woman with a new fire burning in her soul.

*I dedicate this post to my mom and dad, without whom such respite would not have been possible.