Life in the city is sometimes so crowded, especially electronically, that I lose my ability to think–to think deeply.

I write this as sun filters through the blinds of my vintage trailer in the heart of New Iceland, and crows and songbirds celebrate the start of this next arc of the sun. It was cool last night, perfect for sleep. This morning’s coffee is hot, and an appreciated boost. My muscles, still not recovered from Wednesday’s leaf gathering (27 bags), ache from moving bricks yesterday afternoon. But it is a good ache. At this campsite I’ve fallen into my summer routine. Thinking through my fingertips at the dawn of the day, then campsite improvements, then a walk. It is all quite solitary, and, except for early in the day, unplugged.

Once upon a time in the days before social media, I would sit down at my keyboard and marvel in my ability to sink into story. The world fell away into a sort of dreamscape–when it was going very well–and I lived my characters, their fears, blunders, melancholy and joy. We can never go back, not that times gone by are ever as rosy as we remember, but we can evaluate and adjust our habits and their influence on self.

I’m lucky to have this space in nature, a chance to unplug, a return to thinking deeply, to that dreamscape of story.

Time to write.