Creative Something #3

I come out here for the quiet. The gentle lapping of the waves, the distant songs of the robins, the whisper of wind through the tall grass… it all helps me to forget. Every day is perfect here. If possible, I start my mornings wrapped in a sleep-warm blanket with a hot cup of coffee, standing on the dock which slowly bobs with the ebb of the lake beneath it. Somewhere else on that vast body of water that disappears into the morning fog, an infinite expanse of unknown, someone is creating these small waves that brush my shores. I am up in the hours before the dawn, just as light begins to kiss the sky and the morning dew begins to settle on the grass. It is quiet. Even the birds are too busy hunting for their worms to make much fuss.

If the day is sunny, I set up my small wooden desk and chair in the yard or on the dock and do my work there. If it is getting too hot by lunch time, I move inside and open all of the folding windowed doors that face the lake. Then I’ll plug in the fan I found a few years ago in the garage, a functional relic of the 1980’s. Occasionally in August, the days become almost unbearable with heat and humidity. I, however, find the opportunity in them to languish in the hammock, take a dip in the lake, and save the writing for the hours of dusk and dawn. I pretend this is mother nature’s way of telling me to take a break or providing me the time to seek fresh ideas in the depths of my mind. Similarly, I find opportunity in the days of rain.

My favorite are those afternoons in which it’s as if the skies have opened up and unleashed decades of pent-up tears upon my small cabin. The downpour drowns out all sound and sometimes even the vision of the lake, so it is as though only the cabin and its contents exist on this small patch of earth; there is nothing beyond. The air is fresh and clean smelling and the coolness is often welcome, particularly in August. On rare occasions, I am blessed with the rumbles and cracks of thunder, which lend the day a sense of urgency and passion. My writing may be best on these days. The rain makes me feel more alive. It is more languid on days when it simply drizzles a bit. They make me so sleepy, often times. It is on those days that I sometimes imagine myself secreted away in a tropical jungle because of the way the rain drops sound as they hit the leaves.

The cabin isn’t actually what I would consider a cabin, as I imagine cabins to be more rustic. Cabins ought to be constructed of whole logs stacked atop one another, at least on the exterior. This is really just a small house covered in moldy wooden paneling, meant for one or two. (I prefer one.) The kitchen is tiled in brown, contains a fridge, sink, and small stove that are all stained with years of use, and is only large enough for one person to occupy at a time. The common area is large and cozy, with tall, thin windows that fold in on one another like an accordion and open onto a very brief brick patio. They make up the entire wall that faces the lake, separated occasionally by a support beam since the room is longer than it is wide. The bedroom is simple, with a mattress that is perfectly worn in resting on a simple metal frame and a dresser. The bathroom is the most modern piece of the house. I had it re-done a few years ago when I got tired of bathing with spiders and mold. I consider it a worthy investment.

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