Sunday, October 31, 2010

The writing retreat chronicles, part 2

Whenever you get a group of women in a house together, there will be a few givens.

Someone won't eat wheat.
Someone won't eat carbs.
Someone won't eat after a certain time of day.
And nobody will admit to eating sugar.

Fall on the Imnaha is a sweet time, when the apples fall slowly from the trees, the leaves fall  in a golden halo and the days blend into each other in a timeless flow. Every day I walked or ran up the Freezeout road, past the empty houses of the part-timers, past the pelton wheel that no longer runs, beyond the place where the road washed out in the spring snows. The house dreams by the river, across a wild swinging bridge and nestled below the canyon walls. On the first day it rained and snow frosted the canyon rims far above.

Every day each of us padded into the kitchen to make our tea, or our cereal, or our steel cut oats, and padded back to our chosen places to write. I wrote in my room at a tray table, looking out over the river. In the evenings we all stirred, stoked the fire, and read what we had written that day. At first it was difficult to let go of the tug of home, hard to plunge into pages we had not seen in months. But after a day or two the dams burst and we wrote.

A week of no internet, no cell phones. Anything could have happened in the real world. We were in a cocoon, a lazily spun web where time stretched and expanded. Driving back "up top" I was propelled back into the world of work, terrorists in Yemen and chores. My heart stayed on the Imnaha.

1 comment:

  1. Love the word images, and the photo images, too. Sounds like a magical place, and great out-of-world time. Glad you had this.


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