All week on vacation I’ve been sitting in this spot just outside the front door of our little cottage. Thinking about writing, mostly. Collecting words that I’m reading, and words I’m stringing together myself. Patchworks of words that don’t match but might make some semblance of a theme if stitched together; who knows? I think: where do I start? I have a thousand middles but nothing that feels like a start. And I’m sitting here on the last day of this little retreat, enough quiet to gain space in between the thoughts of every day life, and I see what you see right now. A green thicket of plants and trees. Not a garden. Some weeds. Wildly grown and un-groomed.
From where I sit, it’s pretty nice. From here, you could start anywhere - there is no worn path - and if you just kept going, step by step, just beyond the taller trees, you’d see… (at Chatham Beach, Cape Cod, MA)