The week I took off on holiday to my cabin in the woods was a much-needed respite. I thought nothing of the world at large, nothing about work, nothing about anything.
I awakened each morning just before the sun rose. I had the automatic setting programmed for the coffee maker, and it was the fresh coffee aroma wafting through the cabin that was my alarm clock.
At this early hour, the sounds of the forest filled the air. Birds chirping and quick flutters of wings. In the distance, one could hear the snapping of twigs as deer made their way through the brush. No sounds from the twenty-first century tainted this world.
Pouring myself a cup of hot java, I walked to the front porch, sat down on the rocker, and propped my feet up on the porch railing.
Those moments were a treasure to behold. Sometimes a branch would fall from a tree, the “calling card” of a mischievous grey squirrel scampering between the bare trees. Sparrows flitted between branches, stopping just long enough to belt out a song. High above, hawks circled the sky.
Each day of my retreat was a gift. I had enough provisions to not make any trips into the small town. I took my meals on the side porch where I could watch the creek flow by, and the sun set each evening. I walked miles and miles on the dirt paths within the forest. And a few chilly evenings, I lit a small fire in a clearing away from the cabin and enjoyed a hot pot of tea in the darkness, save for the twinkling stars above.
In between commiserating with Nature and meditating, I jotted down notes and outlines for the books on which I am currently working. It is a wonder how much I progressed and got done with that. I felt this entire week’s retreat was a smashing success.
And now, I’m back home and back to the grind.