Writer’s Retreat for One

Like all summer breaks, they slip and slide away too easily, and after the past year, in particular, this summer feels urgent and necessary. I am fortunate to not have to have a side hustle, and my sons are grown, so there are little to no caretaking responsibilities.

One of the quarantine refrains, the incessant earworm is “why didn’t you write every day?” I have no spent my time well, but I have spent my time as needed. Our collective trauma over the past five years+ affects us in different ways, but make no mistake, it is trauma.

Last week I did some gardening, and a flurry of housecleaning, and because I am not in great shape (see quarantine) my back week out about three days ago. The exact lower back muscles that are responsible for getting out of a chair, bed, or any sitting position, protest in pain. I have a standing desk that’s ready for assembly, and perhaps my son can help me with this today.

The thing is, though: I need to take a break from the quarantined world, and in a homeopathic way, am going to retreat further this week. I’m going to pretend I’m in some fancy, crunchy Vermont writers’ retreat. I have the shed, I have the coffee pot, and my own brain.

So wish me luck, wish me words, and mostly, wish me the strength to get my dopamine fixes in other ways.