I am an Indycar that has, mid-race, thrown my transmission into neutral. Although I cannot see other vehicles passing me on the Motor Speedway while I am left behind, I still feel the anxiety. This is what my past week has been like to go from end-of-semester college English grading and saying good-bye to graduating English seniors to driving seven hours from Northwest Indiana to the Hocking Hills in Southeast Ohio for my first artist in residence.
All of a sudden, there is silence. I’m staying by myself in a cabin on almost 30 acres of woodlands. Last night, my first here, I fell asleep to the sound of rain and squirrels scampering across the roof, and before dawn, I awoke to the call of a quail. I knew this because when I was a kid, my dad taught me how to whistle its tweet, which sounds exactly like its name, Bobwhite. I’d never heard the actual bird before but recognized it immediately, and this afternoon, I googled and saved an image, so that I can identify it if I see it while hiking.
I’m here to start my second full-length poetry collection as well as work on either my memoir or a novel idea when I need a change of pace. Never have I had a stretch of alone time like this to devote solely to writing before with no worldly obligations. I may have had an overnight in a hotel or a long weekend, dog sitting, but to have three straight weeks of complete silence, except for the sounds of nature — and those without car and truck squeals on a road in a distance — is a tremendous gift.
Sadly, I need to let myself relax, so that I may become immersed in the creative process. To that end, I’m trying to reset myself. Yesterday, en route, I bought healthy foods to eat and downloaded a free meditation app, Simple Habit. Earlier today, the voice on the five-minute “Introducing Mindfulness” session reminded me to give myself permission to meditate, continuing by expressing exactly how I feel: That to stop the constant motion and tagging of responsibilities, one to the next to the next, can not only feel weird but even uncomfortable, as if I should be somewhere else doing something else. As if I have forgotten something important. To be in a place in which time is not a headphone always clamped to my ears actually almost causes me to feel panicky. But I can overcome it.
This afternoon, I trekked the half-mile hike on the property and saw a chipmunk, a butterfly, a squirrel spiraling up a tree trunk, and a rotund bumblebee. I told myself not to rush, and I mindfully imbibed the sights, smells, and sounds of the forest. Tomorrow, after meditation, I’m adding yoga – I brought my mat. The next day, I plan to wander the trail at Old Man’s Cave before I sit down to write. For now, though, I will contentedly return to a comfy patio chair that looks out onto the forest to read.
JANINE HARRISON 