Home Again, Home Again . . .

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I returned home late last night from a week in a cottage in an obscure corner of Maine.  There, above, is where I spent much of my time, out by the water under a tree inhabited by two ravens.  Occasionally, a lobsterman would come by, empty his traps, and putter up the coast.

And what did I do?  Pretty much nothing.  I cleansed myself of electronica.  When I was in the car, I left the radio off.  I didn't even read newspapers.

I got a lot of reading done.  And I only wrote one short essay in all the time I was there.

Mostly, when we travel, Marianne and I travel full-tilt boogie hard and fast:  Up the mountains, into the caves, and a hundred miles down the road by noon.  But every year I like to take a week off and bring myself to a full stop.  On the first day, I'm so wired from a year of literary activity that I'm almost quivering.  Slowly, I recover myself.  And by the final day I no longer want to write.

That's when I know I can come home.

Today, I've done nothing at all, other than typing out and reworking the essay.  In an hour, I leave for a literary dinner party in New York City.  And tomorrow, rested and recharged, I'll resume my usual work schedule.

So I am content and so too, I hope, are you.

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