Writing spots

As a teenager taken over by my newfound love of writing, I wrote everywhere...in my room, in the car, on the porch...pretty much anyplace where I could sit with pen in hand and notebook on knees.

And I discovered I loved to write outside. Years of endless summer days spent exploring nearby fields harvested special writing spots to which I often escaped:

The lone tree centered at the base of a small hollow so steep only the uppermost branches were visible just a few short feet from its perimeter.

The long-abandoned, overgrown farmer's passageway connecting the higher-ground fields to those at the lower level, outlined by stonewalls painstakingly layered by hand generations ago, and marked at each end by delapidated remnants of gate.

Beside the narrow stream as it entered the culvert passing under the main road above, near the water wheel of the deserted mill set a surprising distance from its dirt road access.

Atop Buck Hill, perched on a rock too large to be picked by the local boys employed to do just that each spring, surrounded by second-cut hay waiting to be baled and overlooking our farmhouse, barn, pond and maple grove.

I loved the solace that each spot's isolation gave to me. I could lose myself in my words, and gain myself in their release.

Today those special writing spots are not within my physical reach. But if I close my eyes, I can see them as vividly as if I stood there still. If I keep at it long enough, I'm amazed to feel the solace begin penetrating my soul once again.

The trick is holding onto this feeling long enough to lose myself in my words yet again so I can regain myself in their release.

But that next interruption always seems to come along, shattering my memories and the inherent soulful tranquility they bring.